Potty Problems
The Oldie September 2001

I write my books at night and sleep most of the day. It was three o'clock one morning. I was writing my book, the Rendon Boy to the Grave is Gone, to be republished not long hence as Stop the Car, Mr Becket! - I was advised that its original title was too gloomy to sell well. The book is a black comedy. It is by far the best book I have ever written.

After working for some hours, I wanted to print what I had written. Try as I did, I couldn't get my toner into my printer. My hands and arms were covered with ink, which distressed me. I called the Samaritans, whose lines were engaged for about an hour. A man answered. 'I'm very upset indeed,' I said. 'I write books. I can't get my toner to go into my printer, which means I can't do my work. Could you send a man out to help me, please?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, could you send someone out to put in my toner, please? Do you realise my hands and arms are covered with ink?'

'The Samaritans cater for psychologically distressed people, not those unable to use the tools of their trade. Do you think a dentist would ring us up and ask us to fit a burr to his drill?'

'What's a burr?' I asked.

The disagreeable man hung up.

A few weeks later, I started working for an organisation in South London called Suicides Anonymous for the Elderly. I did this for a few hours every week, when I wasn't writing. My job was that of agony aunt. I worked in an office with five other people. We each took a bundle of letters written by elderly distressed people from a tray. We read the letters and answered them as sympathetically as we could. Most of them were from despairing people who did not wish to live.

Our first supervisor seemed a pleasant, jolly man called Charles Fox [name disguised]. It was he who interviewed me. He had a loud, carrying voice and a bogus upper-class accent. His speech was peppered with slang words from the 1950s.

The lengthy interview was nearly over. I thought Mr Fox was in a state of advanced hypothermia. He leant over his desk and rubbed his hands with glee. His eyes took on a mad, crazed glint. 'I say, let's have a strapping old pow-wow about suicide!'

'suicide, Mr Fox?'

'Tahiti's the ticket. Ever had a bash at it?'

'No,' I said.

'Do you ever suffer from depression?'

'Sometimes, mildly, for an hour or two in the afternoons, not often more than that.'

'Oh, I say, hardly a sufferer at all. Jolly hockey sticks is what I say to that! Oh, there's something I should warn you about.'

'What's that?'

His voice was suddenly lowered as if an escaped convict, brandishing a carving knife, were loitering in the building. He said, 'Very regrettably, we have to share a building with a branch of the National Front, who occupy the top floor. That means we have to share lavatories with them. They use loads of toilet paper and we have to get plumbers out to unblock the drains nearly every day. These blighters don't seem to have had any potty training at all, which is surprising. Do you know that Hitler was out of nappies when he was only nine months old?'

'Is that so? I didn't know that. No doubt we learn something new every day.'

'That's not the only problem they cause us. They throw their bicycles down on the floor in the hall and a few poor suckers fall flat on their faces because of them. It's even impossible to get to the fire extinguisher. Oh, I say, I hope I haven't put you off.'

'Not all all, Mr Fox. I shall use the toilet facilities in the IRA pub next to this building.'

'I don't advise it. The lavatories there are even worse.'

'Never mind. There's a public convenience near the Elephant and Castle. I'll use that.'

I had been there for about six months. Three months had passed and there was no sign of Mr Fox. The atmosphere in the office was unpleasant and secretive. No one answered whenever I asked why he had stopped coming in. I had fist home telephone number and I tried to ring him one evening. His wife answered. 'May I speak to Mr Fox, please?' I told her I was calling on behalf of the organisation.

''Oh, my husband's in custody, awaiting trial, blast it. He's in prison for embezzling funds from the organisation, as well as other crimes. That's why the whole place is about to go bust. Who'd want to work there anyway, with the stench of boot polish and blocked lavatories on the top floor?'

'That's because of the National Front,' I said.

'B******* what the cause of it is! I'm fed up to the teeth with my bloody husband. He's been in and out of jail ever since I married him.'

Mr Fox was replaced by a new supervisor. Her name was Maureen [name disguised]. I hated her. She was a scruffy woman with a patronising manner, long, unkempt hair and foul breath. Whenever she spoke to me, she came so close that she flicked her hair in my face. She sensed my revulsion towards her.

She intimidated us by often asking us to see her in her office two or three days ahead. It was a psychological tactic to make us nervous. On one occasion, when she spoke to me and rubbed her hair against my face, she had particularly foul breath, causing me to gag.

'I want to see you in my office at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon', she said.

'What's wrong with now? Tomorrow's not convenient.'

'Three o'clock tomorrow's the only time that suits me.'

Your behavior constitutes industrial harassment, but if it's what you want, I'll do it.'

I went to her office the next day. She was not there at three o'clock. I waited. It was 3.30. I decided to wait for another half hour, in order to put her in the wrong. At 3.45, she turned up, carrying a lot of files under her arm, many of them covered by her hair.

'You asked me to come here at three o'clock,' I said. 'It is now 3.45. You said you wanted to have a conversation with me. What do you want to talk to me about?'

'All I want to know, is what's going on between you and me?'

'You tell me,' I replied.

At first, we had been left to our own devices when we answered desiring letters. We signed and sealed the letters and put them through the franking machine. I had just sealed and franked about eight letters. Maureen knew I was about to post them. 'I want to see your letters,' she said.

'What for?'

'I want to check your written English.'

'My written what?'

'You heard me.'

'You're talking to the author of 17 published books and holder of a BA Hons degree in English. I am also a freelance journalist.'

'I don't care. I've seen some of your letters before. Your written English is very stilted and likely to intensify a person's feelings of despair.'

'Suit yourself; if you want to make a fool of yourself. Read the letters. I don't care whether you see home or whether you don't.'

She read one of them and handed it to me. It was a long but friendly letter to a man whose best friend had fallen off a ladder to his death. He said in his letter, 'I cried all day yesterday and lay down and slept. I felt much better after I lay down.'

In my reply, I said, among other things, 'I'm very pleased you felt better after you had lain down.' I was in too much of a hurry to sound colloquial.

'It's not "lain"; it's "laid",' said Maureen.

'You're wrong. You don't say, "I have lain the table." You say, "I have laid the table." The word "table" is accusative, as in mensam. Perhaps you haven't studied Latin. One uses "laid" because the table is at the receiving end of the laying, i.e. it is or has been laid. You can only say "lain" when there is no accusative, as in "I have lain down." You have completely overlooked the request of the old gentleman who wrote in. He asked for our reply as soon as possible. If it hadn't been for your unpleasant behavior, he would have got it tomorrow morning.'

She ignored me. 'I'm telling you it's "laid".'

'No, in this context it is "lain".'

'Laid!'

Lain!'

'Laid!'

'Lain!'

My suspicions that she was mentally deranged were confirmed. She said, 'I feel so strongly about this that I'd like to meet you at dawn in Trafalgar Square.'

'What for? To feed the pigeons?'

'To thrash this out. No weapons.'

'You need in-depth psychiatric assessment,' I said.

When I went back to the offices the following week, I got an awful shock. Suicides Anonymous had folded without warning. It was typical of Maureen not to have mentioned this was going to happen. I went to the top floor, where I saw a National Front worker lacing up a crude-looking pair of walking boots, which were so well-polished that I could see my face in them.

'Do you know what's happened to Suicides Anonymous?' I asked.

'Bloody hell, no. What do you expect of an organisation which is oblivious of major issues, such as Pakis and coons all over the place?'

'You really are awfully disagreeable.'

'Break your sodding neck, will you?' shouted the Nazi.