Man Down!

Until today, I'd forgotten the story.   — 1987.  New York City. —   One of the local tabloids reported: MAN TAKEN TO HOSPITAL WITH RAT BITE!

My friends' reactions could be summarized in "What else is new?"  I was amused by the construction of the headline, 'with' indicating an object to follow.  I began substituting rat-bite with the names of objects. ... with handbag. ... head lice. ... ruby lipstick. ... with nylons stretched over his face. ... yapping dog. ... handgun. ... pizza slice lodged in his pie-hole.  I imagined a rat bite so vicious that the man was stretchered into the Emergency Room with a set of rodent dentures stitching up his leg.  

I read on.   — He was bitten, as British public school boys might say 'whilst downtrouting the loo' as if he were on some sort of fishing get-away, or, as the New York paper put it plainly, 'while sitting on the toilet'. 

Until today.

The face staring up at me looked serene.  The body, submerged, lifeless as something to be found in a biology lab's bell-jar.  Instead, it was in the toilet of my basement restroom.  The seat and lid, both down, when it emerged through the plumbing.  The bowl, offering nothing to cling to. 

I should have taken a picture.  The image would have been handy to have one on memory card rather than burnt into my memory instead, still, given pause to think 'what if it is still alive!' or 'what if it is just waiting for me to come a bit closer?'  A photographic still would have held it there forever.  Not exactly dead, but not alive either.  Over time, I would have set it aside, forgotten it. 

In the present, I just wanted it gone.  But, how to get rid of it?  I closed my eyes and, after a moment of hesitation, flushed the thought: what comes up must go down.

This just in.  A homeless rat inflicted with head lice pulled a pair of nylons over its face, intending rob the pie-hole of every last pizza slice.  He was dying of hunger, he was overheard to explain to an accomplice waiting in a get-away van.  Inside, sitting at a table facing the pizzeria's flat-glass windows, a yapping dog wearing ruby-red lipstick noticed the rat about to enter.  While barking her order at the waitress, she pulled a loaded handgun, unseen below the table, from her Louis Vuitton handbag.  The threatening rat was dead within seconds of entering the pizzeria, even before pushing his demands like a ventriloquist through his own still clenched teeth.  The dog was lauded as a hero by a cat who witnessed events and spoke to this newspaper's reporter on condition of anonymity.

Mothering Sunday. March.

Remembering 2009.     — Helen, David's mother, on her first visit to us in the UK.

— We'd rented a car. Drove her to see monuments across Anglia. Stopping in a village pub for dinner. 

— There, they fêted her as though she would soon be dead. In a room all our own. A fabulous meal. Fine English ale. And, just for her, a rose and a candle-lit 'pudding' (which was cake to her ... her Quebecoise hair held by a ribbon, Marie Antoinette style). 

— We told her that all of this was in her honour. The waitress willingly played along. It was only as we left, she wished her a "Happy Mother's Day!" 

— When we got to the car, out of ear-shot, she said, "What's wrong wit' her?  C'est absolument fou là!  Mon ostie de saint-sacrament de câlice de crisse! [*no English translation*]  Mother's Day's not 'til May. What's wrong wit' her?" 

— On the ride home, while she was holding the rose like a nosegay as we drove through the Fens freshly spread with manure, we told her: "It's Mothering Sunday. In the UK, today is Mother's Day. And, it was all to honour [her]."  I think that David first actually told her that they give roses to all of the women this time of year "parce que tout le domaine est couvert de merde"   — Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

Sound clouds at midnight

@ almost midnight. Cambridge city centre, UK. Walking Max.
 
Warm enough for a late open air concert in the park.
 
Boisterous crowds being turned out of pubs for closing.
 
The local theatre, releasing its last catch; 
a pitched discussion loud enough at a distance to be taken for English football fans ejected from a Saturday match.

Lion's Yard. 27 February.

This weekend the USA moves one hour closer to Europe. Meanwhile, at a higher latitude, darkness persists. Europe springs forth only at the end of March.

LION'S YARD. 27 FEBRUARY.

“Excuse me”, says the man with the lilting Northern* accent. “Can you tell me if this carriage pulls in closest to the station’s exit?”

“Most certainly”, says the woman whose voice has the hard edge of transplanted Scots. “Bang on.”

“It’s a long train!” says the man, emphasizing the word long.

“Fifteen carriages”, says she.

“People in the rear", he suggests, "must have to climb onto the platform.” The farther north you go on this line, the shorter the platforms become.

“Worse.” She says. “Sun sets before they make it this far.”

She’s not kidding. After a long, dark winter, late February days seem a godsend. Lion’s March has yet to advance on us. Until then, even longer days end quickly.

_____________________
*Like the USA, the UK has a North/South divide. The British North is the near equivalent of the American South.