Sometimes when I venture out for a newspaper or a carton of
milk I feel as though another tiny part of me has disappeared. This gradual
body depletion is difficult to quantify as I know I’m still virtually the same
person I was yesterday, with the possible exception of an extra grey hair or newfound
wrinkle. It’s as though the more routine and predictable my journeys are the
more insignificant I become. Perhaps I should attempt to halt or even reverse
this slow disappearing act with a naked one-man-band impersonation in the dead
of night?
It also seems as though the less I interact with my
surroundings the more the invisibility is accelerated. A hearty ‘good morning’ or ‘lovely weather today’
with any complete stranger tells me I’m still here. It’s when I refuse to
engage with my fellow humans or choose to hide myself under hats, and behind
sunglasses that the situation is exacerbated.
Certain senior citizens can slip through our observational
nets without even trying. Their body language, gait, and dress all conspire to
render them a kind of walking background noise.
A particular brand of adolescent filters out these urban ghosts because
they refuse to accept or believe that one day they too will be shuffling
towards Tesco’s with a beige and orange shopping trolley wondering if they
remembered to lock the front door or turn off the cooker. Either that or they
see no personal advantage from elderly interaction.
If I stopped going out would anyone miss me? I could always don a disguise such as a false
beard or wig and discover for myself. I’d frequent my usual haunts and say
something like:
“Whatever
happened to that middle aged guy who used to come in here day after day for his
paper and carton of milk? The newsagent might scratch his head or frown and
say:
“Oh you
mean that quiet fella who wore the same drab clothes? Dunno, praps he moved
away or died?” Not exactly a heartfelt
eulogy is it? Mind you, I could always stick up for the mute fashion disaster
with some heartfelt anecdote or even suddenly unmask myself with a jubilant
“Fooled Ya!”
I think some days we feel more anonymous than ever, wearing
our transience or disconnection like a heavy overcoat. I also think we prefer to make a conscious
decision to emerge from our prospective dwellings ‘camouflaged and unremarkable’
or not at all, because we don’t wish to stand out and be noticed. We can’t all
be in the limelight at the same time. Sometimes it’s infinitely more preferable
to watch a firework display than to try and be the firework itself.
A few years ago, I wrote a poem about an elderly man who was released
from a mental health establishment to fend for himself in the community. Sure,
he was told he had the backup of a CPN (Community Psychiatric Nurse) twenty
four seven, but this man had fallen into a daily routine so entrenched that no
one was ever going to alter him. Unlike me, he was extremely visible, until one
day he completely disappeared. Below is my tribute to him.
Noel
Noel Coward lives in our street.
Each day at nine he promenades
wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,
recently died fawn slacks
And beige slippers
First he pats his pockets,
before taking out an imaginary
cigarillo
clamping one hand to his forehead,
mouthing “ooh silly me” and,
realising fags are normally filter
first
removes it, bows and re-inserts.
Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian
crossing
on Prospect Road parodying an old
prostitute,
soliciting winks from passers’ by,
Taking great sucks of his pincer’ed
butt
Like a reverse breathalyser
Blowing pseudo-smoke rings at traffic
cops
His gait is something to behold.
Not quite John Cleese from the
ministry
more a speed skater in slow-mo
who trips over an imaginary toe
and slews to a teetering stop
I heard he feigned death
in Granton Park,
doing a very convincing heart attack.
Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic
Arrived too late
As did the imaginary undertaker,
leaving
an eight-year-old girl feeding swans
to mark the body
face down in the lake
with two soggy rounds of bread
and a mouldy bap
