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STEPPING IN THE SALAD (13)

'Had 'e?' asked the Priestess as she wielded brand new tweezers, as she plucked another insect from her arm.

'It's a shame to die intestate but I say the good and the great would do well to pen their obit. What's the harm?'

I said: 'he was silent on the subject, and, I felt I couldn't object; it's a difficult and dreadful thing to do. For the most part, one is wary to consider death. It's scary.

'But, it's something I rely on to get through.'

'Yes, of course,' replied the Priestess. 

'In a world of meritocracy and something like democracy, I can see I haven't really fared that well. . . '

'Indeed,' she nodded.

'Fate and Bad Luck called the shots. It was they who chose my lot.

'As for headstones, I'd say: Damn It, Gone To Hell.'

Stepping In The Salad (12)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (12)

'It was after kicking cairns that we confronted our mortality. . .

'So, I said to my companion, have you written an obituary?

'Have you thought how you would like to be remembered when you pass?

'Do you have a snappy title for your gravestone epitaph?'

Stepping In The Salad (11)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (11)

'Ah-ha,' mused the Priestess, extracting a tick. 'So conceptual these days that it just makes me sick. Did you make something pretty or was it just smart? (How I long for some simple pictorial art.)'

'Well.

'We made pictures of vistas without any sky, and horses in kiosks (though, don't ask my why)

'We wrote short lists of words using sans-serif font, like:

'Equality

'Liberty

'&c

'Enfant.

'We drew circles of mud and trod lines in the grass. We kicked down all the cairns that we found on our path  . . .

'A form of neo-brutalism, then? How interesting.'

Stepping In The Salad (10)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (10)

'The thing about walking; you can't keep on talking, especially when going up hill. We wandered in silence, our bodies in balance, our minds quite untroubled and still.

'But, the thing about speaking; it don't mean you're thinking. Ascents gave us time to reflect. 4000 feet high, with the sun in the sky, re-engaged with my dulled intellect.'

The Priestess yawned and mumbled some truism about the recuperative powers of meditation.

'It was then we began to make art,' I added.

Stepping In The Salad (9)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (9)

'So . . .

'We made our pledge (as he clung to his hedge).

'We'd cherish the union we'd found.

'We promised to stick to each other's side and walk ourselves into the ground.'

'Til death do you part,' said the Priestess as she mixed a Bloody Mary. 'At any time at all did it feel a bit scary?'

'No.

'And, I'll tell you why.

'As I walked by his side I forgot all anxiety. Dispatched of my sadness and fear.  I felt very strong (my stride was so long). I saw life with a bright clarity.

'It sounds sort of cheesy, I have to confess, but I felt only happy: remarkably blessed.'

Stepping In The Salad (8)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (8)

'As he hung on the gorse I, too, felt some remorse. After all, it was he who had saved me. 

'So what was I doing considering death? It was he who had given me life when bereft. It was he who had shown me where happiness lay. (And, it was after all, such a beautiful day . . . )

'I said, "why not let go of that tree?".'

'Did he?' asked the Priestess.

'Yes.

'And, then as we sat on the cliff and ate lunch I put to him what, in effect, was a hunch. I said, "all would be well if we just kept on walking; just doing our thing" (which is moving and talking) . . .

"Consider the facts and, then, let's make a pact. There's no need for this Deep Misery. The joy we have found is both hallowed and sound; let's keep going, just you and just me".'

'As we did,' mused the old hag.

'Somewhat different, I think,' I replied.

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STEPPING IN THE SALAD (7)

'I ran to the Downs ('til I reached Seven Sisters). My tendons were swollen, my soles worn to blisters. He followed me there, and he stood as I stared at the sea far below. . . .

'No, I wasn't that scared.'

'So dramatic, my dear. Do continue, I pray.'

'I stared at the sea, which was turquoise blue, but, I couldn't decide what was best I should do. I knew I could jump; I am ever so brave.  But, I couldn't commit to a watery grave.

'It was, after all, such a nice sunny day.'

The Priestess snorted.

'For his part he didn't much care for the edge, so he stayed on the path and held tight to a hedge. "Look here,'' he opined as he clung to the gorse. "If you were to jump I'd be full of remorse".'

Stepping In The Salad (6)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (6)

'It was love at first sight beneath the full moon, but everyday life brought its gloom all too soon.'

The Priestess squatted and looked all agog; adjusted her bra and, then, swallowed some grog.

'The bounds of constraint wrap around domesticity. Too much for the feint, her name is Deep Misery. . .

'Deep Misery works in insidious ways. She anticipates plans and scuppers your days.  She appears quite benevolent, but works clandestine. She worked hard to unravel the love I deemed mine.'

'So, what did you do?'

'I decided to leg it.'

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STEPPING IN THE SALAD (5)

'Oh . . . .

'The man is a boy (and so not a girl). We met in a pub in a small place called Firle. We talked as we drank from a pitcher of wine. It was then - in an instant - I wanted him mine.'

'So, what happened, then?' enquired the Priestess as she hoisted her flesh-coloured knickers and smiled.

'Well . . .

'We slept out that night; affirmation of life. Watch the stars cross the sky, you forget all the strife. You forget about all that is petty and grim.

'I knew, for a fact, all I wanted was him.'

'Tell me more.'

Stepping In The Salad (4)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (4)

So.

We discussed REF for a brief little while; my forehead was sweating, my mouth full of bile.

Then, the Priestess opined (cracking open some wine) 'there are more better things you can do with your time. I see that you're sad but I don't know quite why. Speak out - sixty seconds - just what makes you cry?'

'I'm in love.'

The woman eased out a sigh.

'Well.

'Let the bells ring; what a wonderful thing. I presume those are tears of joy. . . Now, tell all from the start (and quit acting smart).

'Is your lover a girl or a boy?'

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STEPPING IN THE SALAD (3)

'Well . . .

'I can see why it is that you get so pissed off; I am sad to admit that this sham - this chaos - might be borne from an output of mine.'

'It's hardly divine, is it?' I interjected.

'But, when all's said and done, it is impact that counts. And, my dear, I've had impact despite it amounts to - well . . .  I must say what I see makes me sick.

'In defence, I did have to act quick.

'Seven days to create - from conception to birth (that doesn't leave time for reflection, research). Seven days to invent and to bring to fruition a half-baked idea fed from ruthless ambition . . .'

The Priestess paused to light her pipe.

'Can we talk about death?' I said, bored with her hype.

'Now, that's quite a request,' she puffed (out of breath). 'My intention, my sweet, was to talk REF.'

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STEPPING IN THE SALAD (2)

'My God,' I repeated (still feeling defeated; depleted by HE's regime).

'Indeed,' she responded.

(And, believing we'd bonded, the Priestess bent forward and beamed.)

She continued:

'It's so quaint that you pray and, indeed, I must say that your faith has sure served me quite well. Since Darwin and Freud, I've been grossly ignored. (I've no takers for heaven nor hell).

'Acknowledged by one who was never baptised; who's life is beset by deception and lies; by one rarely fazed - that is, rarely surprised . . . 

'My dear, please, refrain from looking so bored.'

(The Priestess wiped a tear, or two, from her eyes.)

'Just tell me how to live,' I barked, sans finesse.

'Alas, that's advice I can't possibly give. . . 

'But, have you ever thought of waitressing?' said the worldly Priestess, as an after-thought.

Stepping In The Salad (1)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (1)

Well, I could not abide walking on side by side with the Priestess; the woman appalled me. 

So, I quit my life's hike. Then, I got on my bike. 

I applied for a job in HE.

(Senior Lecturer in Photography History.)

Now, it might have been funny (as was the money they paid me to work like a dog). But, I quick lost my wit; academe is not fit - in effect, it's like driving through fog.

In an open-plan office, I sat at my desk.

Education's burlesque: I find it grotesque. I bit hard on my lip and tried praying to God. (Self-indulgent and sorry, I let out a sob.)

'Don't you worry, my dear, I have noted your prayer. In your hour of need, I will always be here.'

'You,' I said, eyes open-wide. 'My God.'

'Indeed,' she coolly replied.

Then, the Priestess stuffed an out-of-date, Aldi Welsh cake in her slackly-defined gob.