Tailor Made

Image: Maria Laura Bratoz 2012

The dog wearing the tuxedo made it special.

That’s a hell of a gimmick.

Truth was, Michael didn’t need a gimmick, but that was who he was, and that flair went into his creations.

I hadn’t worn a suit since graduating high school, but Michael made me look presentable when my father died suddenly.

He made me look like a groom a few years later.

“You scrub up well,” was a phrase I kept hearing.

“I always look good,” was my usual response.

“I’ve never seen you in anything other than a T shirt and jeans.”

“Well now you have,” I said many times.

The dog in the tux is named Bob, and it suits him.

He welcomes anyone who comes into the shop and sits quietly when not on welcoming duties. His favourite toy is an old wooden darning mushroom that once belonged to Michael’s grandmother. Michael wasn’t too pleased when the pup found it and claimed it for himself, but “It’s only an object, and Bob loves it”.

Bob has a basket behind the counter for afternoon naps ‘when things get quiet in the shop’.

In much the same way as a good barber, Michael is part craftsman, part psychologist.

His words got me through my father’s funeral.

“He gave you everything he had and he had to go, but his love will be with you forever.”

The suit Michael created had tear stains when I finally hung it up, and it will stay that way.

Bob was slow to realise that I’d come into the shop, and he looked a little confused.

I bent down and risked my bad knee to scratch behind Bob’s ear.

I looked up at Michael.

“His hearing is going and he will be embarrassed that he did not notice you,” said Michael, stitching a hem.

“It’s okay Bob,” I said, “I can’t always remember people’s names.”

Bob didn’t seem to appreciate my less-than-expert attempt at making him feel better, but he did lick my hand.

“Bob, can you ask Michael to make me a suit that will make me look like I know what I’m talking about?” I said.

“What’s the occasion?” said Michael.

“I’ve been asked to give a twenty minute talk to a gathering of about two thousand people. About half of them are likely to be skeptics, which will be fun,” I said.

“You’ll win them over. I’ve heard you speak. Just find the smiling face in the crowd and speak to that person,” said Michael.

My speech went well, and I was in the City on business, so I visited Michael and Bob.

“The suit did the trick,” I shouted so Bob would know I was there.

Bob trotted over to me and received his pat.

“Your father would be proud of you,” said Michael.

“I hope so,” I said.

I offered to take Bob for a walk, and Michael liked the idea.

Walking a dog in the City in the middle of the day is no mean feat, but Bob and I managed it. We weaved in and out of the distracted citizen until we got to the river. Bob ran up and down the bank, and I sat on the grass.

I called Bob, but he didn’t come so I waved my arms like a mad person and he saw me.

A very attractive woman watched us perform our dance, and Bob jumped on me with delight.

“Is he an old dog?” she asked.

“Yep. Me too,” I said.

She smiled, and I remembered my dad telling me, “Take a cute dog for a walk and the girls will be all over you”.

“You never met my dad, did you? “I asked.

“No. I don’t think so,” she said, and I knew the rest of the day was going to be delicious. 

Looking After The Kid

It doesn’t happen often.

My wife does most of the childrearing. My job is to make money and mow lawns.

No, that’s not fair. I get to do other stuff as well; fun stuff like kicking the footy, shooting hoops and rough-housing. The kid loves to rough-house.

His mum, my wife, is away for the weekend. A ‘girls’ weekend’ she called it, ‘and the least you can do is look after our son for a couple of days’.

A very long list of things to do and not to do is hanging on our fridge.

I don’t know what half of them mean, but I said, “No worries, I’m all over it.”

I learned to lie when I was about his age, and I’ve gotten to be very good at it.

 So, I suppose you are wondering how we ended up here?

It was easy. All I had to do was say yes when the kid asked to go to the park.

“Let’s walk there,” I said and off we went, basketball under one arm and a backpack full of sandwiches and drinks on my back.

I didn’t once look at the sky or the weather app on my phone. Optimism reigned supreme.

We had a great time, and I got to talk to the gorgeous mum from the kid’s school. She seemed to know me, and I pretended to know her.

We were about halfway home when the heavens opened up. The kid thought it was great. He loves puddles; always has.

I wasn’t all that pleased, but it was only water, and the weather was warm; what could possibly go wrong?

I dried the kid off, fed him, and put him in bed, as per instructions.

The following day we both had a cough and a runny nose. Mine was worse than his, but he looked worse than I did.

I didn’t want him coughing all over the place when his mum got home, so I employed my mother’s cure. Soaking our feet in warm water and a spoon full of that excellent cough medicine you can’t buy anymore. The one that puts you to sleep for several hours. It worked like a charm. The kid was out cold by the time his mum got home.

I listened to all her stories, warm in the thought that I would be on the train going to work in the morning before she realised the kid had a cold.

“I don’t know how that could have happened dear,” I’ll say.

I know the kid will dob me in with, “It was so cool. We got to jump in puddles and play in the rain,” but by then, time will have passed, and I won’t be in as much trouble.

I inherited that bottle of red cough medicine from my mother. It was her secret weapon. Whenever my brothers and I got to be too much, she’d give us a dose of her ‘special medicine for little boys’. Then, bang, we’d be out like a light for hours.

I guess it was a form of child abuse, but I like to think of it as her not killing us for being so annoying and her getting a bit of peace before dad got home.

The world was different back then, but kids will always be kids.

A Day At The Beach

I don’t remember why I took the day off. The usual reason, probably. I didn’t like that job very much, and I didn’t much care if they fired me.

They didn’t, which was annoying. I’d get the dole straight away if they fired me. I’d wait six weeks if I left. The rent always needs paying.

My favourite spot on the sand didn’t always include a pretty girl, and it never included a crow.

The pretty girl was a bonus, and I’m guessing she’d taken a day off work also.

I didn’t ask. I wasn’t there to make a friend. I was there to listen to the water and to soak up some sun.

The crow, on the other hand, had other ideas.

It has to be said that I was barracking for him. I’m assuming it was a him. You never can tell with crows.

He worked on her bra strap for a few minutes before she reached back and shooed him away.

He waited for her to fall asleep again and had another go.

By his third attempt, he’d worked out how the knot worked. One final tug and the string came undone.

The crow looked at me, and I looked at the crow.

The girl jumped up, and the crow took off with her top in his beak. I swear he smiled at me, but maybe that was my imagination.

The young lady covered her breasts, but not before their loveliness was seared into my memory.

In a flash, a T-shirt covered her.

She gathered up her belongings while I pretended not to have noticed what had transpired.

I don’t know where the crow took the bar top, but I’d like to think he presented it to his mate. Maybe they made a nest out of it; who knows?

I stopped trying to get fired and found a moderately less soul-destroying job, then another one, until I finally found this one, which isn’t too bad.

I haven’t been back to the beach for more than a year.

I sometimes wonder how that crow is getting on, and I wonder about the woman as well.

I do a lot of wondering.

Miss Penelope Spenser

Her father named her Penelope because her mother was too unwell to protest.

Penelope’s dad was fond of historical heroines, and Odysseus’s wife seemed like a wise and resourceful woman — someone he hoped his daughter would grow up to become. He always thought that Odysseus was a bit of a dick, but he gave him credit for finding his way home. The whole taking a detour so he could hear the Sirens sing seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

Penelope Spenser had her heart broken on two separate occasions — the second time being the most painful.

Her first broken heart was a shared experience. Many young women saw their beautiful young men go off to war, never to return. It didn’t help that she was part of such a vast sisterhood, but it gave her cover for being unmarried.

Death did not play a role in her second heartbreak.

Philip Dunstable promised much, but in the end, he ran away with the daughter of the local cinema owner.

No cover at all, only a heart that would not mend and ongoing embarrassment.

Her grandfather died and left her a cottage and about a thousand pounds a year. Not quite enough money to survive on, but she supplemented it with a bit of sewing and mending — the benefits of a practical education.

Her parents passed away and left her some excellent chinaware and a mountain of debts that were only just cleared by selling their house.

Through it all, Penelope was stoic, if not actually happy.

She was a quiet person who loved to read and walk and talk to people she knew.

Her garden was full of flowers and weeds and birds and other things that liked weeds and flowers.

I wanted you to know these things because it helps to explain why Willian chose her.

William had a home — if you could call it that. He wasn’t young anymore, and the few years he had left were precious to him. He wanted to spend them with someone who would appreciate his love and devotion.

He chose Penelope Spenser.

Of course, he didn’t know that was her name. All he knew was that she was friendly and walked most days to the shops and returned with a basket full of delicious aromas. That was most important because William was hungry most of the time.

William had come into the Getts family as a pup, and the young boy had looked after him until he’d been packed off to boarding school. It was lonely without him. The Getts family were not really dog people, and William was barely tolerated. A dog cannot live without love. Love is more important than treats and sausages and water, and a warm blanket.

William planned his campaign with military precision.

He knew when she would most likely walk by on her way home.

Her big shopping day was Wednesday, but William had yet to be able to tell the days of the week.

His gambit was a bold one.

Lie in the road and look half dead.

As a plan, it had its drawbacks, and he nearly got run over twice, but finally, Miss Penelope walked by and noticed what looked like a dog in distress — legs in the air, not long for this world.

The ‘lying on the back with the legs in the air’, turned out to be a good ploy because upside down he looked like a different dog to the one she would pet every week on her way home.

“Oh dear. You poor dog. What’s happened to you? Are you lost? Are you hurt?” said Penelope, who tended to ask a lot of questions when things got intense.

William opened one eye and tried to look as pathetic as possible, which was a challenge because he was well fed and a bit plump, it has to be said.

Miss Penelope put her shopping down, and a bread roll fell out. It was all William could do not to leap on it.

He held his nerve, and Miss Penelope held his paw. It was then that he knew that passing up a crusty bread roll was well worth it. Her touch was gentle, and William went all wiggly inside.

“Do you think you can walk? I hope so because I doubt that I could carry you,” said Penelope.

William rolled onto his side and gradually got to his feet. He wobbled a bit just to press the point.

“Good dog,” said Penelope.

“Come,” she said, and William wobbled along beside her and her bag full of goodies until they reached her cottage.

Penelope showed him into the house and laid a blanket on the floor near the fireplace.

“This is a good spot for a tired dog to regain his composure,” she said as she lit the fire and made herself a cup of tea and put away her supplies.

“You might as well have this. I hope you don’t mind that it’s a bit dusty,” Penelope said as she put the crusty bread roll next to him.

She took one of the lovely china bowls that her mother had left her and filled it with water.

“Every dog needs water,” she said, “and when you are feeling better, I’ll look for your owner and give him a good talking too.”

Penelope did go looking for William’s owner, but even though she put up flyers and asked around, the Getts family stayed silent, and their son was sad when he came home from school to find his dog had ‘run away’.

William thought that his young master had gone away, never to return, and he did not know of his sadness.

William made a ‘miraculous’ recovery and assumed the duty of keeping Miss Penelope safe and loved.

They read stories together, and William would chase and bring back anything that she threw. He was very good at sitting and rolling over, and he was warm and loved.

William felt bad about deceiving Miss Penelope, but a dog needs love, and Miss Penelope had plenty to share.

.

Illustration Credit: Anita Jeram 

This Happens To Me A Lot

I find a quiet spot, take off my shirt (because it’s hot) and settle in for a few hours of writing.

The beach is secluded, and my laptop won’t hold a long charge, so I bring my typewriter from my college days.

Next thing I know, there is a scantily clad woman asking me what I’m writing about and why am I using a typewriter, and why am I half naked?

I don’t know which question to answer first.

Semi-naked ‘cause it’s hot.

None of your business what I’m writing.

Typewriter because my handwriting sucks, and my pencil broke.

Usually, this makes them go away, but the lady in the yellow bathers wouldn’t budge.

“You’re funny.”

“No I’m not, I’m annoyed.”

“You’re cute when You’re annoyed.”

“No I’m not. My balls shrink and I get worry lines.”

“I’ll bet you have cute balls.”

 “They’re not cute, they’re average. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I have no way of knowing how cute they are. Girls tend to be polite when you are naked so how do I know?”

“I have a picnic basket. We could eat lunch and discuss your testicles?”

“What sort of lunch?”

“Lunch, lunch. You know. Sandwiches and chicken legs and soft drink. Stuff like that.”

“What sort of sandwiches?”

“Cheese and tomato.”

“What sort of cheese?”

“Cheddar.”

“Okay. But after lunch and the discussion about my testicles, I have to get back to work.”

“Fair enough.”

She was faithful to her word, and after a spirited debate about the significance of large or droopy testicles, she left me to get on with my important work.

Tomorrow, I go back to that same sand dune, and I will be accosted by another pretty girl.

Maybe I’ll leave my shirt on. That might discourage them, but I doubt it.

Damn sand gets into everything.

Assignment

I was beginning to think that Barry had forgotten about me.

I hadn’t received a job in three weeks.

“It’s an assignment, sweet cheeks, not a job,” said Barry.

“Assignment then, but don’t call me sweet cheeks. I’ve told you about that before.”

Suitably chastened, Barry proceeded to outline the assignment.

“He’s easy on the eye and you don’t have to fuck him unless it’s absolutely necessary. We just need to know if he’s got the goods and who he’s selling them to. He’ll get phone calls when you are with him and I need to know what he says. I’ll work it out from there.”

“How do I meet him?” I asked.

This was an important question. Barry could be a bit cavalier when arranging meetings for me. There was the time I was supposed to go through a bloke’s wallet. Barry had me spill a drink on him in a bar, appropriately called ‘A Bar Called Barry’, on Gertrude Street.

The bloke took a swing at me. I ducked and apologised, and he apologised for the attempted punch; I picked his pocket, did a handoff with his wallet, and managed to survive the night.

“He books an escort everytime he gets a shipment. He thinks it makes him look inconspicuous when he is on the town. I know the shiela who runs the agency — owes me a favour or two.”

I’d never want to be in Barry’s debt.

“Escort?” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s a high class agency. He could buy a second hand Merc for what he’s paying for the pleasure of your company.”

“That does not reassure me Barry. I’m a married lady with a husband and two teenage boys.”

“Don’t worry. If he gets a bit too hanadsy slip this into his drink. Come to think of it, if you get the information slip it into his drink anyway.”

Barry handed me a small glass vial with a cork stopper — old school.

“The shit’s clear and tasteless so if he’s one of those ‘good taste wankers’ he won’t twig.”

Sometimes you needed subtitles for Barry.

Philip John Dutton took me to a small Italian restaurant in South Melbourne. You know the sort of place? Red and white check tablecloths, Cianti bottles hanging on the wall.

He received three phone calls, and I memorised his half of each conversation for retelling to Barry.

I slipped the clear liquid into his glass when he went to the toilet, but it didn’t have an immediate effect.

He seemed rather pleased with himself as he paid the bill and helped me with my coat.

“My hotel, for a nightcap?” he said, and I smiled at him.

There was only a short walk to his hire car.

I nestled into the passenger seat, and he drove off into light traffic.

This was all taking too long.

We were stopped at a set of traffic lights, and when they turned green, we slowly accelerated away, only to slow to a crawl.

Our car wandered to the left and gently mounted the curb coming to a stop against an old wrought iron fence.

My door was jammed against the fence, making it impossible to escape.

I saw lights go on in the house we had bumped into.

My mark for the evening was slumped over the steering wheel, snoring loudly.

I pulled him back into his seat, and it wasn’t easy. He weighed a ton. I have to do some more upper body work.

I climbed over his sleeping body and fell out of the driver’s door onto the nature strip. Not very elegant.

I pulled down my dress, and the homeowner came around to the side of the vehicle. The engine was still running, and the idle was trying to encourage the car to continue its journey.

“Are you okay?” said the homeowner, reaching in and turning off the ignition.

The trusty hire car gave up its forward quest and shuddered into silence.

“I think so,” I said, dusting off my dress and straightening my hair.

“I have to be going now,” I said.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the ambulance?” said the concerned homeowner.

“No. Not really.”

I started walking as the homeowner noticed that I wasn’t the driver.

I walked for about five minutes before I got a taxi. I asked it to take me in the opposite direction to my home. After driving for about ten minutes, I gave an excuse and got the driver to drop me off. The next taxi I hailed took me south for nearly a quarter of an hour before I gave a similar excuse and got out.

I walked for an hour to a train station.

I wrote up the phone calls on the train so I would not forget.

The following day, my husband drew my attention to a story about a drugged driver and a runaway woman leaving the scene. The police tracked down the taxi driver who picked her up but then the trail went cold, apparently.

The woman was described as attractive (I would hope so), about five foot six (five seven in heels), blond hair (some of the time), a green coat and a black and white stripped dress.

I hope I don’t have to get rid of that coat.

I love that coat.

Toaster

It was just sitting there, calling to me. I was powerless.

I love toast. I desire toast with butter and jam, and I must have it.

In the morning and late at night – especially late at night.

My tummy rumbles, and there’s only one way to stop it.

Toast.

I found this chrome goddess in a second-hand store.

I’m pretty sure they didn’t know what they had.

An early 1950s Sunbeam T20, with the art deco design embossed into the body.

I asked them to switch it on, but they didn’t know how.

“You’ll need a slice of bread. It won’t run without one,” I said, and the attendant looked at me like I’d landed on this planet quite recently.

He searched for the handle that all toasters have — the handle you push down on to make the bread descend.

“It doesn’t have one,” I said, and there was that look again.

“Put it behind the counter,” I said, “I’ll go and get some bread and be right back. Don’t sell it to anyone.”

My look told him what would happen if he did.

The milk bar on the corner was out of bread — of course they were.

I legged it up the street and across the road, narrowly being missed by a four-wheel drive.

The bread aisle was way down the back — an old grocer’s trick, make them walk past everything else just to get to what they need — milk and bread.

“I got some,” I said as I undid the packet. Several slices spilled onto the floor. The attendant went to bend down and pick them up.

“Don’t worry about those. Go get the toaster.”

The attendant did what he was told and placed the toaster on the glass counter. Then, he bent down behind the counter and plugged the toaster into the power socket.

With a flourish, I gently placed two slices of bread in the slots on top of this chrome beauty.

I stood back as the bread magically lowered itself into the toaster.

“How the hell did it do that?” said the attendant.

“It’s magic,” I said, “or levers and metals that expand at different temperatures, but mostly magic.”

The attendant put his hand on the chrome surface and promptly burned himself.

“This thing is more than sixty years old. No safety back in those days,” I said as the attendant sucked his burnt fingers.

There was a click, and the bread slowly rose up and revealed itself.

“Got any butter? Jam?” I said.

The attendant disappeared into the stockroom and emerged with a knife, butter and jam.

An old English dinner plate appeared out of nowhere, and I buttered and jammed the perfectly toasted bread.

I handed the attendant a piece, and I devoured the other.

We licked our fingers, and I gave him the asking price.

“Never seen a toaster do that before,” he said as he looked for a box to put the slowly cooling toaster in.

“And you probably won’t. “ I said. “Too expensive to make. They were todays equavilent of about three hundred bucks. Very few people want to pay to see magic toast.”

“And you paid fifteen dollars for it?” said my hungry husband.

“Yep. Quite a bargain, if I do say so.”

I had toast and soup for lunch, and we had toast and paté for supper.

My husband thinks I’m slightly obsessed, and he might be right.

Little Boy

When I was a kid, I wasn’t as old as I am now.
I didn’t always know what was happening, so I went on feelings.
If I felt safe, I didn’t worry about the details.
Then there were times when I knew something was wrong.
A trip into the City, lunch at a cafe, milk and a cheese sandwich, with the possibility of cake. These were all good things associated with ‘special time’ with my mother. On one occasion, she kept me home from school, which made the occasion all the more special.
Today, all those things are happening, so you would think I’d be happy. My father coming along was exciting but disturbing.
Their conversation is only increasing my anxiety.
It’s unthinkable, but they are talking about not living together.

The Hat

“But Helen, I bought the hat just for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Not in so many words, but remember last Wednesday night? You said, ‘take all your clothes off but leave the hat on’.”

“That was then, John, and it was a beret, not a hat.”

“I thought this one would give a nautical feel to our love making? Are you sure you don’t like it?”

“It makes me think of McHales Navy.”

“That’s not good. I was going for Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief.”

“Does that make me Grace Kelly? Let me have another look at that hat. I think it’s growing on me.

Wayback Wednesday: Tennis Double

The sun was getting low, and its height exactly matched my mood.

When things get bad, I have strategies.

Top of the list is walking.

It occurred to me that I had not walked this way in a long while and I wondered why. With the sun filtering golden light through the tall pine trees I was instantly transported back to a moment in my childhood — some sort of fete or carnival, pine trees, afternoon sun and a feeling that the world was a remarkable place.

The tennis courts were cut deeply into the side of the hill, and I wondered why the soft mountain soil had not washed away over the years. Hard timber benches lined the top of the cutting presumably so that people could sit and watch the games — the games being played some twenty feet below.

This high vantage point gave the activity a surreal quality — more like a movie than real-life.

All of the other players had left for the warmth of their homes and their loved ones. For some, it would be a quick shower and out again to enjoy the nightlife. For others, it would be a quiet night in front of the fire with good conversation or the comfort of a well-chosen book.

The following day meant a return to work with only memories of a long weekend to share with those who would stop and listen.

Work did not beckon me.

My life was on hold and only time would tell which way it would go.

I walked to the last of the three courts which also offered the highest vantage point.

A young couple were playing a listless game, and it seemed to me that the man was very patient with the two females on the opposite side of the net.

I supposed that he was playing both of them at once because he considered himself a superior player, but his demeanour did not support my supposition.

The two females were dressed in the same cute, short tennis clothes — the kind that conveniently reveals frilly knickers whenever they bend over to retrieve a ball.

It was an odd convention that a man was allowed to watch a woman play tennis in a short skirt, but under different circumstances, he would be rebuked for staring.

What odd creatures we humans are.

One of the women seemed a little paler than the other, but apart from that, they could have passed for twin sisters, at least from my elevation.

The paler one appeared to be the superior player, but even so, she got distracted from time to time and often retrieved the ball in the slow dawdling manner of a child.

The male remained patient throughout, and I admired his calmness.

I could remember similar occasions when all I wanted was a decent workout, and all I got was a giggling opponent who couldn’t hit a ball to save herself. We had to abandon that game because my partner was afraid of disgracing herself.

“If we hadn’t stopped I was going to pee myself.”

I was mildly amused, but I hadn’t raised much of a sweat. Her tennis dress was driving me crazy, and I remember asking her to keep it on when we got back to her place. The knickers had to go, but I liked the dress, and I got my workout, but there was not a lot of tennis involved.

If I had behaved in an impatient manner my evening might have turned out quite differently, and I wondered if that was what was motivating the patient young man at the far end of the court, but somehow I doubted it — there was something else going on.

The late afternoon light can cause a person to see things that are not there, but in this case, I thought it was causing me to see something that shouldn’t be there.

From my hardwood perch, high above the ‘brick dust’ courts, it seemed to me that the paler of the two women was in fact slightly transparent.

It seemed that I could see her, but I could also see through her.

Not like a pane of glass, for she had form and substance, but more a sensation that I could see her and beyond her, all at the same time.

There wasn’t anyone nearby to ask, ‘Can you see what I can see?’ And in any case, I doubt that I would have asked the question. My world was strange enough as it was and I guess I didn’t want to believe that I might be ‘loosing it’ completely.

Tingles ran up my spine as I watched the three people gather up their belongings and leave the court.

I was left with my thoughts and the fading light.

A few moments later, after the three people had disappeared from view as they walked close to the cliff and past the courts, one of the women and the patient young man walked up the steep path and passed by my seat.

I’d assumed that they would continue down the hill to the carpark or back towards the town.

The young man walked on a few paces and stopped, but avoided my gaze.

The woman stopped next to me and while staring at her tennis shoes, as though she had not seen them before, said, “You were watching our game. Do you often watch strangers enjoying themselves?”

“I watch people all the time,” I heard myself say.

I answered partly because her presence made me feel light and free of concern. I know that sounds a bit strange, but that is how she made me feel. I’m long past the age where I become speechless around a pretty girl, but I was surprised at how quickly I responded.

“I didn’t mind you watching, but I think you made my friend a bit nervous.”

“Your friend looks a lot like you. So much so that I took her for your sister. A twin possibly?”

“I meant my boyfriend,” she said.

She didn’t say anything else for quite some time.

She seemed a little uneasy, and I was keen to know why her mood had changed so suddenly, but I was not going to break the silence.

“Did you see her?” she said, with a slight emphasis on the word ‘her’.

“Of course. It’s hard to miss two beautiful women who look so alike. She’s a better player than you are if you don’t mind me saying?”

As I said this, it occurred to me that I should not have. I was enjoying talking to this person, and I was in no hurry for it to end.

The boyfriend was staring at his shoes as well, but I don’t think he was wondering about them. He was quite keen on his tennis shoes propelling him and his girlfriend away from this conversation, but I also had the feeling that he had seen all of this before — maybe even a number of times.

I didn’t feel threatened by either of these people, and although this may sound strange to you, everyone had made me feel uneasy in recent times, but not these two.

Her reply took me by surprise, “You can see her?”

“Not right now,” I said, and I wasn’t trying to be funny, “but down on the court, I could see her clearly. She’s just as beautiful as you, but she has a more confident gait.”

“She’s more confident than me in most things. You might say that she’s the best of me.”

“Now you’ve got me really intrigued. Is she related to you? If not, why do you dress the same? I know enough about women to know that they don’t enjoy it if another woman is wearing the same outfit.”

“We are very closely related, but I’m more interested in why you can see her clearly.”

“Joan, this conversation is starting to bore me, and I think you should leave it alone. It is time for us to be going. We’re going out, remember?”

Until he spoke these words, I thought that I was not going to hear from him at all, but now that he had I sensed a tiredness in his words as well as the resignation that I had seen down on the court.

“My devilishly handsome boyfriend has a point, but I must say that you are the first person to tell me that you can see her clearly, and I want to know why assuming that you have the time to talk?”

“I do have the time, but I’m worried about you catching a cold.”

It’s true that I was looking at her legs and feeling just a tiny bit cheeky. Her long-suffering boyfriend gave me a look that said he was more than capable of being less than patient if the occasion required and I acknowledged his annoyance by looking away as he placed his white tennis jacket around her shoulders. He then retreated back to his original position on the pathway and continued his visual examination of his tennis shoes.

Her boyfriend’s jacket was way too big for her, but she looked cosy with it wrapped around her.

“She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. She ‘comes out’ whenever I have a specialist job to do. I guess she is that part of me which is good at whatever I’m attempting. When the job is done she becomes a part of me again, and that is why she is not with us now — the game is over. When I was little, I thought that everyone had an ‘other’. I called her ‘other Joan’, and I’m ashamed to say that I blamed her whenever things went wrong. Especially if something got broken — ‘other Joan did it, not me.’ Strangely, my ‘other’ never seemed to care — never seemed upset. She always understood. She was ‘the best of me’. I found her presence comforting, especially on those dark days when I doubted my usefulness to the world. In a funny kind of way, I was my own best example,” she said with a smile.

I found myself smiling as well.

Her situation seemed like a very good one, and I found myself wondering ‘why her and not me?’ Then I remembered I was the only person she had come across who could see her ‘better self’. Maybe that meant I had something special in me — because I could see the ‘special’ in her.

This was all starting to sound like I should rush out and hug a tree, but besides that unlikely image, I was feeling good for the first time in a long time.

As you would expect, our conversation continued for some time.

I half expected her to make an excuse and pull away, but she didn’t. She seemed almost as interested in our conversation as I was. I asked her how long she had lived with this ‘extra person’ in her life. Was it something that came on suddenly or had it always been that way?

“I cannot remember a time when it wasn’t so. I thought that everyone experienced an extra self and I reasoned that most people were shy, so the subject didn’t come up — the same way that best friends don’t talk about all their adventures.

I was amazed at how quickly I became comfortable with the idea.

In the end, her boyfriend became impatient again.

“Joan, we have dinner with Trevor and Jackie tonight. We need to get going?”

Despite his growing impatience, he had an easy-going good humour that told me he’d come to terms with his girlfriend’s friendly nature very early in the relationship.

They both looked quite young, but their demeanour said otherwise.

My best guess was early 20s. He was about 6 feet tall, and she was about 6 inches shorter. They were athletically built and attractive.

It was the woman’s smile that you noticed first.

I was quite sure she could defuse any volatile situation by simply flashing that smile.

When they finally moved away, bags over their shoulders, I watched them go without any feelings of self-consciousness.

I wanted to see if the young woman would turn and look in my direction one more time.

She did, and I saw her lips move before the words registered.

“Your inquisitive self is showing.”

I thought she was just being cute until I caught a glimpse of the second shadow on the ground very close to mine.

“You ask very good questions.”

“Thank you,” was my startled reply.

It’s a strange thing to be complimented by a slightly transparent version of yourself.

It had been a surreal day and the evening was looking decidedly bizarre as well.

“Where are we going for dinner tonight?” said my slightly transparent self.

“Excellent question,” was my reply.