The Dr Phil debate - The Plan - Stage 1

I'm just going to go straight ahead and say it, I know some may disagree and some may feel anger towards me for it, but I have to say this for my own sanity

Day time TV is stunning!

Never one to to get behind things overly passionately, but I can't stress how much I really mean that. Give me some credit though, I'm not talking about all daytime tv programming, there's a lot of bad stuff out there, no I'm talking about how once and a while one thing comes along that's so revolutionary it completely changes your mind on a group as a whole, be it Robert Johnson and blues, Miles Davis and Jazz, Nelson Mandella and politics, the Dali Llama and religion....well! I've found such a thing, no! such a man, somewhere sandwiched between Boflex and Thin lizzy adverts, he sat, there was no shouting from the roof tops, he was just quietly going about his business, ooozing a confidence and class that is very rarely seen let alone experienced. and what does this man, dare I call him that, do? not satisfied with just bringing light into others lives through his sheer talent and presence, he only goes and sacrifices his own time in the pursuit of happiness for others!

What a man, what a human being, all I can say is

"thank you Dr Phil!" (audience stand and applaud overly enthusiastically)

And sooooo a plan was hatched! Admittedly not the simplest of plans, yet so meticulous in it's planning, guaranteed success surely would follow. The plan would come to be known only as:


"Operation Dreamstate"


To the few who knew of it , it would soon come to consume there lives, to those unaware of it's existence, well, they're ignorance could be no preparation for the impact it would soon inflict upon them.
For the purposes of this piece and, more importantly for my own protection, only the basic details will be revealed and furthermore I ask, most strongly, that the information that you will become privy too will stop with you.
The origins of the plan have never been verified, but it is reported that it began one wet wintry day in the Queenstown Foothills, New Zealand. A man and a woman sat enjoying coffee, idly chatting and paying little attention to the television on in the background. The man's attention was pulled from the dialogue and swung to the television.. The programme had changed, a new type of show had appeared, a format unlike that he had seen before and now stood a man on the screen that emanated something almost unworldly. He stood almost seven foot tall, with a aura of strength yet love. The woman fascinated by this sudden shift in attention, focused herself also on the screen. What was witnessed for the next hour irrevocably changed there lives and would soon become clear to be the catalyst for the plans formation. That man was myself . I will not reveal the woman's identity, for my fear for her life.
For several hours we sat, knowing that the words unravelling from our mouths only a day previous would have been considered unhinged, and yet with every new word came a clarity, an overpowering feeling of what we were doing was just.
First came the abduction, I remember that the abduction was first, then the time travel, or was that first, the order which they came never was ultimately important, only that one couldn't happen without the other. It was imperative that this stage went without flaw, for upon it all plans in the future hinged. If we couldn't shift time to the exact point of my 7th year, then the window of opportunity would never again be open. I needed to be old enough to remember the events, but young enough not to remember specific detail, my identity must not be revealed to my child self. For if it were, surely the damage done would be irreversible.
The child, let's call him "Gary" for the sake of the narrative, from this point would no longer be known as he had previously been, and information relating to him prior to his 7th year would be destroyed and substituted with falsified documents. His natural parents would initially be heartbroken yes, but time is the best healer, and given enough of it, with the aid of under the table prescription medicines, there minds would soon come to forget. Likewise there efforts as parents would not be forgotten and each year, on the same date, March 12th(Gary's Birthday) a financial reward would be deposited into there bank account. Although from first impression this part of the plan may appear cruel, one must think logically, for who really is the best person to develop and nurture a child, their natural parents or themselves with some 30years more life experience?
Unfortunately as interesting as that debate may be, in this case it turns out to be irrelevant, as it was never the intention to raise Gary. No, for the purposes of the plan it was only necessary to break him from his previous life structure and set him loose to develop on his own, without any parental guidance. As quickly as we transported into his life we have transported out of it. Gary would be moved, initially in terms of location, to the town of LowerHall, Iowa then crucially in time. Moved 6 months into the future, Gary would now become the youngest and smallest of his age group, a child with an accent that didn't fit, moved from one home to the next with as many different parents as abodes.
In truth our efforts didn't end the night we transported Gary, for after the event in six regular month intervals I would return to his life, never coming in contact personally, but through influence and an understanding network of individuals, I would be able to guarantee his movement to a new location. Gary would remain untraceable to his original parents due to the shift in time, their efforts to touch their son forever lost, frustratingly always 6 months behind his steps. My dedication to this task would last exactly nine years until the day of his 16th birthday. I have learned through others that his natural parents search had long since slowed, with constant failure came an overpowering tiredness, that initial fire to make the world right again, had long since gone out.
The initial stage of the plan was complete, we had delivered Gary to the point of adulthood, the constant interventions in his life had shaped him into what we now had before us. Gary was now ready to shape his own journey, deprived of life knowledge and unsheltered from the worlds harsher sides, the effects of which would hopefully be enough to complete stage two........

Off the Floor

I was lying on my mattress on the floor the other day thinking, how long would it take of this type of existence for evolution to catch up and adapt to the point that I would no longer use my legs and arms and become some sort of elongated slug creature?

I came to the conclusion around a month, so I promptly got onto my stiffened limbs and headed down to the flight centre and bought a flight home.

Yes indeed, two important points to pick up on there, yes, one, I have moved house and for the last month have been living with 2 irish friends from Freshcoice, and more importantly, two, I'm following the lead of Vince and saying goodbye to NZ and heading back to the UK. My date of arrival is the 7th of July, when once again I will be re-united with Jules(hopefully at the airport, I like the romance of it) and the world will seem a bit more normal again. And well 3 now I think about it, haven't really got a grasp on evolution. I'm pretty sure just because you sleep closer to the floor that wouldn't really affect your legs or arms probably would just leave you with a bit of a sore back from all the additional bending down, but I have a corphotic spine anyway....so what's the difference? to be honest, if anything it helps with getting down there so I'm using the tools of evolution to my advantage and sleeping on the floor may well be my perfect state of rest. Come to think about I've lived in three houses in Queenstown and I've slept on the floor in each one, that's it's Jules we're never buying a bed again.
All that being said, it's turned out a pretty nice arrangement for all concerned. Although on the floor, I have my own area on a level to myself(brochure described it as a mezzanine) which overlooks a spacious sitting/dining room area which overlooks a fantastic view over the lake. Important point to pick up on here, generally to get a good view you need to be at a vantage point. And what a vantage point, smack right on the top of Queenstown hill, the sunsets are spectacular the walk home from work at midnight no so much. Yep with every good thing comes a niggle and that's this ones, but don't worry, there's little chance of me developing muscles on these chicken legs, I've gone and found someone to give me a lift home so you can all rest easy.
This ones a bit warmer than the cardboard cabin, so you should all be able to see me pretty much on my arrival back, was a little worried that I'd have to spend the first three weeks in a basement at the Natural History museum getting thawed out.
tick tock!

So anyway...

If you plough through the last blog entry (all true, by the way, seriously) you might have determined that I’m catching a plane soon.
Finances have curtailed the whole ‘coming home the long way home’ scheme – which wasn’t really practical on a New Zealand salary, so will have to be shelved until “next time” whenever the hell that is. Instead, I’m coming back to the UK quick-smart-like, specifically arriving in Heathrow on the evening of June 21st, which is all of a week or so away. Good heavens, indeed.
Not a moment too soon either, as its chuffin’ well freezing over here at the moment.
Anyway, my side of the blog isn’t quite finished yet (no! come back!) with a couple more bits and bobs due on Christchurch and whatever I get up to in Queenstown for the last weekend. After that, expect at least one (1) further entry in the near future which will waffle on laboriously about the “end of the journey”, having “learned so much” or “being generally quite skint now” or some mawkish tripe alone those lines. You have been warned. Seriously.

So anyway.
Anyone up for a pint?

The Bookseller

There is no music in the bookshop, although I don’t notice this detail immediately because to begin with, I’m too relieved to find a second-hand bookshop open on a Sunday at all. I’m trying to trade in the stack of paperbacks I have accumulated during my stay in the city. I have about eight of them, lovingly hoarded over the months. Normally, I should be able to exchange them for at least four other paperbacks but today, I only want one, preferably something slim for the plane journey home, where a luggage limit wins out against my hoarding instinct. Eight books for one is a favourable exchange rate for any bookshop, but almost all the ones I find seem to be closed today.
I don’t see the name of this particular bookshop, but find it located next to a musty looking antiques store with a window display of Disney memorabilia and irate looking Buddhas.
There are probably better bookshops in town: this one is over-lit and under-stocked. The front half is carpeted with a frayed grey rug bunching up beneath the metal-rack shelving, while stained, yellowing linoleum covers the rest. The rows of shelves face off across the narrow room, each with too many titles facing outwards, plugging the spaces that in other bookshops would be crammed with further spines.
Only the paperback section seems clogged full, but thanks to some quirk of the shop’s layout, this only occupies the two shelving racks near the door, with further soft-cover books wedged horizontally in the gaps between the rows, while the shelves filling the rest of the shop floor seem empty by comparison as though they are being saved for bigger, better, more colourful stock.
The place smells a little dusty, a little damp: that second-hand smell of neglected pages reverting slowly to pulp.
And there’s no music, no tasteful background radio tinkling in the background, no budget-priced classical CDs spinning in rickety stereos. Only the hum of an air conditioning unit which seems to get louder and more oppressive the longer I remain in the shop, neck craned at an angle in the traditional bookshop-browsing manner.
At first, I seem to have the shop to myself – even the counter by the door is unattended. The door at the back of the shop is open, and presumably the staff are all back there somewhere in the stock room, juggling stock, making cups of tea or whatever it is that second-hand bookshop employees do when not reading or selling books on a Sunday. But before long, I hear padding footsteps on the linoleum behind me as someone – presumably having heard the bell above the door sound as I entered – comes in to see if I am buying, browsing or stealing.
I don’t look round – I’m still scanning the books on the shelves, trying to find something of interest, something not too taxing which will eat away at my upcoming twenty-four hour-or-so flight. When I do eventually turn – I see that a man has appeared, dressed in a red-brown jersey over a white shirt. But he is not sitting behind the counter as I might have expected him to be, he is kneeling on the carpet just behind me.
And that’s all he’s doing: Kneeling, nothing else. There is nothing in front of him that he might be kneeling down to reach, no low bookshelves which might need stacking, no spilt coffee to mop up, no broken mugs or glasses to be picked out of the carpet. No, he’s just kneeling in the middle of the carpet, staring in my direction, but not looking at me. He is kneeling upright, like someone praying in church, his expression slightly blank: his face in neutral gear.
I turn away again, instinctively pretending not to have noticed and concentrate so fiercely on the bookshelf in front of me that I momentarily forget how to read. The air conditioning clutters and splutters to itself and I find myself holding my breath, listening for movement behind me, half-tensed to make a run for the door, scanning the bookshelves for some hefty-looking hardback crime novel which might double as a weapon should the need arise.
But still, there is no noise at all save for the air conditioning. The man himself makes no movement behind me and all I hear from him is the sound of someone consciously remaining silent, the sound of someone staring at something dead ahead.
I don’t know why I don’t just leave straight away. I have a bag full of books which I have to get rid of before I fly home. I need something for the flight. Anything. So if anything, it’s probably stubbornness which keeps me there. I found this bloody shop, I tell myself, It’s my last chance before my flight. I’m not leaving without something to read.
But I’m not concentrating any more.
It’s as though my decision has been made harder by the knowledge that this kneeling figure is still behind me, still staring in my direction. The bookshelf has become a jumble of meaningless spines. The pressure to choose has increased, the ability to do so has abandoned me.
Then – thank god – someone else comes into the shop. The bell above the door jangles in surprise and a movement behind me sounds like someone getting to their feet hastily. There are other sounds, new footsteps on the linoleum making their way towards the counter briskly.
I stare back at the shelves in front of me and the titles curl back into focus. There, dead ahead of me, three shelves from the bottom, is something, a book which looks of interest, and without thinking any further, I grab for it. As I turn to the counter, the newcomer – a crop-headed man in a leather jacket - turns and leaves the shop again, pulling his coat around him with a frown.
There is a woman standing now behind the counter, and although it might be argued that she bares some resemblance to the man I saw before, kneeling on the floor, it is almost certainly a different person – their clothing alone is different enough that it could not be confused at a glance. The woman’s blouse is brightly coloured, gaudily designed. A pair of glasses hang on a lanyard around her neck.
The man – the kneeling man – is now nowhere to be seen.
“Can I take that?” the woman asks, indicating the book in my hand.
I’m not really paying attention, I’m looking at the spot of carpet where the man had been kneeling as though it might reveal a trap-door of some sort, or at least evidence that he was actually there. There were footsteps, I think, one set of footsteps coming from the back room to the front of the shop. The door at the back remains open, no movement at all behind it.
“Hello?” the woman says.
“Sorry.”
I hand over the paperback and – pleased to be distracted - start rummaging in my bag for the books I wanted to exchange.
When I surface, stacking my spoils on the counter, the woman is still holding the paperback in her hands and frowning at it, ever-so slightly.
“Is everything alright?” I ask.
She nods, puts the book down and smiles.
“Oh yes.” She says, “It’s Nothing. Nothing at all.”
She smiles again, as though correcting the one which has slipped, and she hands the book back to me.
“Have you read it?” she asks, her levity sounding a little forced.
“No.” I say, “Not yet.”
I hesitate.
“It’s for a plane.” I add, suddenly feeling the need to explain myself.
“Oh, it’s very good.” She says, “Very good.”
She gathers my stack of books towards her, but it is she who now seems distracted and so I thank her briefly and I leave, the bell on the door signalling my exit. I don’t look back through the windows at the shop, now empty again, but instead head on down the street, into the wind.
Later, when I get home, I unpack my bag and out of curiosity, flick through the first few pages of the new book. I’m not sure why I chose it now. It is a bulky looking murder mystery by a Turkish author whose books I have read and enjoyed before, but whom I’m not entirely convinced would be fun, undemanding company on a long haul flight.
On the title page, in blue-black ink, an inscription has been written which I had previously overlooked. A two-year-old date, and one pair of initials dedicated to another.
With love. It says.
It’s probably nothing, I decide. Probably nothing at all.