wants. Legally she can just keep it and we can do fuck all about it — and you'll have to fucking pay for its upkeep. You do know that, don't you?'
'Yes, of course.' I did indeed have some vague memory of a counsellor at the hospital telling us about that, although I have to confess most of my thoughts at the time continued to be about Joe Strummer. 'But it'll be fine.'
'That's just you all over, isn't it? It'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything's always fine with you, Dan.'
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I made all the appropriate noises. She appeared to calm down. I said I was going away to America and I'd really miss her. She said she'd miss me too. I said perhaps we should make love now. I went to give her a hug and she punched me in the stomach. I pulled her hair and she bent my fingers back until I screamed. It was another uneventful day down at the Ponderosa.
I had to see my psychiatrist.
I know, me and a psychiatrist, where's the sense in that? Me and some chrome dome with a file and a couch saying I have unresolved issues, like he'd know anything about it. I think I am a well-adjusted individual, although clearly not perfect; I am willing to concede that I may occasionally have an attitude problem, and that perhaps from time to time I don't act my age, but I'm no head the ball. So why a psychiatrist?
Well, not out of choice.
There are actually many and varied reasons, but the one best worthy of your consideration contains the words 'court' and 'appointed'.
Dr Raymond Boyle, psychiatrist to the stars in their own heads, was foisted on me by a senile judge who seemed to think my clearly accidental reversing of a car into Patricia's former lover Tony had enough elements of what he laughingly referred to as 'the sinister' to warrant some form of punishment. My solicitor was canny enough to indulge in a bit of plea bargaining in which I, against my better judgment, and mostly because Patricia ordered me to, admitted causing Tony grievous bodily harm but got off with a conditional discharge, the condition being that I voluntarily undergo psychiatric evaluation and treatment if required. Either that or jail time.
The road to hell is paved with gypsy flagstones.
I have tried to live a good life, it's just that I always end up wearing clown shoes. I have a hoop in my trousers.
'I wasn't trying to kill him,' I told Dr Boyle at my first appointment.
'You ran over him in your car.'
The mitigating circumstances were that I was drunk and really angry, neither of which were likely to carry much weight with the judge. So the only person who really knew the truth was my solicitor, and only because I trusted her, and the fact that she had a nice smile and a spiky fringe. 'I just wanted to flatten him. You know like, in a cartoon, when you flatten someone in a car and he gets up again and he's all kind of . . . flat. That's what I wanted to do.'
'Life isn't a cartoon, Dan.'
'You should look at my CV.'
Wisely, she warned me to shut the fuck up.
Patricia, though she told me she believed it had been an accident, didn't really. I could tell. It was in her eyes. Besides, she should have been grateful for my rather admirable restraint. I hadn't actually killed him. And if he'd had any sort of reactions at all, even those of a particularly lethargic sloth, he would have been able to leap effortlessly out of the way. I'd even sounded my horn. Really, I just wanted to give him a bit of a shock. But no, he stood staring at my reverse lights, like a rabbit frozen by the sight of Art Garfunkel. There was no particular intent. It was more, well, opportunistic. If his having to spend three months in traction in the Royal Victoria Hospital allowed Patricia and me the space and time to get back together, well that was just an unforeseen happy consequence of a tragic accident. Besides, lying with his feet up — admittedly in plaster — for most of the winter wasn't a punishment: that was a career
'Yes, of course.' I did indeed have some vague memory of a counsellor at the hospital telling us about that, although I have to confess most of my thoughts at the time continued to be about Joe Strummer. 'But it'll be fine.'
'That's just you all over, isn't it? It'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything's always fine with you, Dan.'
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I made all the appropriate noises. She appeared to calm down. I said I was going away to America and I'd really miss her. She said she'd miss me too. I said perhaps we should make love now. I went to give her a hug and she punched me in the stomach. I pulled her hair and she bent my fingers back until I screamed. It was another uneventful day down at the Ponderosa.
I had to see my psychiatrist.
I know, me and a psychiatrist, where's the sense in that? Me and some chrome dome with a file and a couch saying I have unresolved issues, like he'd know anything about it. I think I am a well-adjusted individual, although clearly not perfect; I am willing to concede that I may occasionally have an attitude problem, and that perhaps from time to time I don't act my age, but I'm no head the ball. So why a psychiatrist?
Well, not out of choice.
There are actually many and varied reasons, but the one best worthy of your consideration contains the words 'court' and 'appointed'.
Dr Raymond Boyle, psychiatrist to the stars in their own heads, was foisted on me by a senile judge who seemed to think my clearly accidental reversing of a car into Patricia's former lover Tony had enough elements of what he laughingly referred to as 'the sinister' to warrant some form of punishment. My solicitor was canny enough to indulge in a bit of plea bargaining in which I, against my better judgment, and mostly because Patricia ordered me to, admitted causing Tony grievous bodily harm but got off with a conditional discharge, the condition being that I voluntarily undergo psychiatric evaluation and treatment if required. Either that or jail time.
The road to hell is paved with gypsy flagstones.
I have tried to live a good life, it's just that I always end up wearing clown shoes. I have a hoop in my trousers.
'I wasn't trying to kill him,' I told Dr Boyle at my first appointment.
'You ran over him in your car.'
The mitigating circumstances were that I was drunk and really angry, neither of which were likely to carry much weight with the judge. So the only person who really knew the truth was my solicitor, and only because I trusted her, and the fact that she had a nice smile and a spiky fringe. 'I just wanted to flatten him. You know like, in a cartoon, when you flatten someone in a car and he gets up again and he's all kind of . . . flat. That's what I wanted to do.'
'Life isn't a cartoon, Dan.'
'You should look at my CV.'
Wisely, she warned me to shut the fuck up.
Patricia, though she told me she believed it had been an accident, didn't really. I could tell. It was in her eyes. Besides, she should have been grateful for my rather admirable restraint. I hadn't actually killed him. And if he'd had any sort of reactions at all, even those of a particularly lethargic sloth, he would have been able to leap effortlessly out of the way. I'd even sounded my horn. Really, I just wanted to give him a bit of a shock. But no, he stood staring at my reverse lights, like a rabbit frozen by the sight of Art Garfunkel. There was no particular intent. It was more, well, opportunistic. If his having to spend three months in traction in the Royal Victoria Hospital allowed Patricia and me the space and time to get back together, well that was just an unforeseen happy consequence of a tragic accident. Besides, lying with his feet up — admittedly in plaster — for most of the winter wasn't a punishment: that was a career
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