The mood begins to lift. Not because the Bad Thing has gone away, but at least I now feel in a better frame of mind about what to do with it. And no, I’m not telling you what it is yet, but I will say it is something that I have to Deal With. Unfortunately, such is the nature of Bad Things of all kinds that they leave one uninclined to deal with them. (Don’t tell me “uninclined” isn’t a word, squiggly red underline on my screen. It is now.)
Things started getting better last Saturday, when I remembered during breakfast at Belchers café that there was going to be an anti-immigration march in Brighton by a group calling themselves “South East Patriots”. Naturally, they had chosen Brighton as a venue because it was the town in the south-east that most aligned itself with their views. There was going to be a counter-demonstration at 11 in the morning, assembling by Brighton Station, to meet these sensitive political analysts as they got off the train. Eleven! That gave me only half an hour. So I polished off my sausage, egg and chips while amusing myself that many of the SEP would have broken their fast this morning with similar fare.
There was a similar march and counter-protest in the same place a couple of years ago. That time I went with a few friends, only one of whom, my great friend Ben, would be any good in a fight. Actually his wife, J—, would probably be able to pound me into jam if she really wanted to, but that’s not saying much. All I can offer in the way of violence is either a wounding mention in this column, or a stinging book review, if and when they write a book. This is a bit of a long shot, but it would be really stinging. On that demo about five miserable anti-immigrant matchers turned up and huddled behind a protective semi-circle of police officers. I bumped into three different people who said, “You’re Nicholas Lezard, aren’t you?” and maybe I was hoping for more of that.
It didn’t happen. Not only did more of the St George’s Flag-bearers turn up – somewhere between 200 and 400, it is claimed – but no one said I was Nicholas Lezard, wasn’t I. But then I couldn’t stay long, as my guts started acting up. Nothing, I powerfully stress, to do with the admirable Belchers, whose food hygiene is irreproachable (as are their sausage, egg and chips, if you don’t expect unrealistic things of the sausage).
Anyway, I was mildly cheered up: I went to my first anti-fascist/racist/etc demo 48 years ago, and this took me back. The drumming is now a lot better, and the age spread is now a lot wider. Also I chatted briefly with a bloke wearing a Ruts T-shirt and a thick silver chain round his neck: he might not have looked the type, but he was at the last Brighton counter-demo too.
That was nice, but when I got back to the Hove-l I was still experiencing a sense of impending doom. This was about what was happening on Monday: the annual inspection of the smoke and CO2 detectors in the company’s flats on behalf of the landlords. This should not be a big deal, but for me it was. It involved my tidying up the place to a standard that would not make them think of calling social services once they had done their work. Or, worse, the landlords. “Look, I know it’s a little out of our brief, but…”
The kitchen only actually took about an hour, but I had my doubts at first. When you have to start by washing up the washing up brushes before you get down to it, you know you’re in trouble. The surfaces were the least of the problem, though that’s because the kitchen doesn’t have much surface in the first place. I would have cleaned the fridge but between the last time I looked in it and the other day I had read a piece about how you must never open a flood-damaged fridge because everything in it will have decayed to the point that it will emit a blast of methane toxic enough to kill you if you don’t have the right breathing equipment. Or something.
The bedroom was another matter. It made the kitchen look like a walk in the park on a sunny day. I was going to do it on the Sunday but it just looked too much. I lay in bed, groaning and turning among the books and empty Haribo and Salt & Shake packets. But I had a sleepless night and in the end I gave up trying at 6am and started clearing the floor. This took two hours of frenzied hard work. It took longer because you have to examine every bit of paper in case it is important, or of sentimental value, or both, like my divorce papers. But I did it. The people checked the detectors, and left without comment beyond “bye”, and I remain at liberty.
So I propose the electro-dynamic theory of depression: if you’re depressed, you can’t tidy up. But if you tidy up… rather in the way that magnets and wire can either move to produce electricity, or be moved by electricity. I am not sure how much I want to push this theory, though. It makes me sound like some ghastly pull-your-socks-up type. Which makes me think that whatever I had was not clinical depression. Just a sensible reaction to events.
[Further reading: Andy Burnham does a Lenin]
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