To be a fly on the wall

I love visual puns, and I particularly enjoy the pugs below, for their endless visual circularity: flies on the wall/up the wall, pugs might fly, pigs might fly…

pugs

There seem to be no end of things you can have flying up your wallpaper nowadays, aside from the traditional three ducks of my youth. You can have actual pigs or even toucans bearing pints of Guinness, and why not?

Of course, up till fairly recently flying anything up the wall was the Worst Possible Taste but these are Post Modern or possibly even Ironic Flying Objects. So that’s OK. The only wall decoration worse than those flying ducks was The Green Lady, versions of which (or should it be whom?) appeared on living room walls in the ’60s or thereabouts. I have a horrible suspicion, now, that my parents might have had one. If so I’ve been buying a shameful memory all this time.

green-lady

Would you like to be a fly on the wall? If so, where and when?

As a child I would hear my parents arguing about me in the bedroom. I was always convinced it was about me, at any rate. It was a small bungalow and the walls were thin. Not thin enough, unfortunately. I could hear them arguing, the rise and fall of their voices, his low and angry, hers high and tearful, but never the actual words. As a child I longed to have some sort of listening device (I hadn’t heard of the wine-glass-against-the-wall trick then, and anyway my parents didn’t have wine-glasses) so that I could hear all the nasty things they were saying about me and be enraged, which would have been more comfortable than just upset. On the other hand…

…they say people who eavesdrop never hear anything good of themselves. But it’s such fun. I eavesdrop on conversations whenever and wherever I can, partly because you never know when something’s going to be the start of a short story, but also to find out what ‘normal’ people are talking about when they engage all that endless, exhausting-looking yattering.

I’ve picked up some lovely snippets. My favourite, whilst a menial sort of secretary at an agricultural college, was an arch observation between two environmental scientists: He thinks he’s an ecologist because he can do hanging baskets.  I once went to the doctors in my local village. I hadn’t been there before. It was a ‘compact and bijou’ waiting room so it wasn’t at all difficult to listen in.

He’s a very good doctor, Doctor W…

Is he?

Yes, he looked after my cousin Mildred.

Did he?

Yes (long pause) – she died, of course.

And then it was my turn to go in.

I have heard – and indeed read about on other people’s blogs, of something called remote viewing, where it is possible to ‘see’ a place or object that is actually, physically being seen by a different person, perhaps hundreds of miles away. I have never experienced this myself, though I did engage in a kind of thought experiment with Ex, many years ago. It was around the time of Uri Geller and his spoon-bending. (Spoons always fascinated Ex, who was even less normal than me. He used to play the spoons – really, really well but so loudly and embarrassingly – when drunk on the table-cloths of Indian restaurants whilst waiting for his dinner.)

We decided to do that thing where one of you concentrates on a shape or a simple object in their mind’s eye, and the other one has to concentrate and draw it. The first person then draws what they were imagining, and you compare the pictures. We were moderately good at it – we could manage numbers, and pictures of doors, cats and so forth.  We lost interest after a while. There’s only so much door-drawing you can do.

I even read somewhere of psychics being able to travel, themselves, in an out-of-body sort of way and see what friends or contacts many hundreds of miles away were up to. I remember one lady was infuriated because she had been in a state of dishevelment or undress when she became aware of a psychic ‘visitor’ lurking in her room one night. There really ought to be some sort of Code of Conduct for Psychic Lurkers.

What I can do – possibly everyone can – is visit places in my imagination. I can visualise houses, and rooms – layouts, stairs, furnishings – from far away and long ago. I can, if bored, go on a guided tour of a house that no longer exists. I can ascend the steep stairs of my old schoolfriend’s house, a two-up-two-down terrace on a mean little street – the same stairs that I fell down once, landing on my old schoolfriend, who was mercifully quite plump. I can look out of the bedroom window (behind me a shiny turquoise quilt and an undersized dressing-table, its veneer chipped and peeling) and see her father’s black bicycle propped up against the drainpipe. They had a black cat, and the black cat used to jump out of that same bedroom window and land on the narrow saddle of that same black bike.

I can walk round Nan and Grandad’s house, and down to the bottom of the garden where the Anderson shelter had become a garden shed full of spiders, and dusty blue damsons hung heavy in the hedgerow. I can see where all the flower beds were, and the great sea of mint around the apple tree, and the bisque doll’s head my uncle (now 90) had jammed onto a twig, which grew into it. I have sometimes thought I would manage quite well in prison as long as I was allowed to be in solitary confinement. Communing with other prisoners would be hell (I would be the one who was beaten to a pulp in the shower and had most of her food pinched) but solitary confinement would be OK. I could go on my travels. I could follow favourite countryside walks I haven’t seen for years. I could have a little chat with Nan on the back step, whilst shelling peas and listening to the bees humming. I could be out in the Lodge with Grandad, watching him doing his carpentry and breathing in sawdust and glue.

And then of course there are the entirely imaginary journeys. Attending some meditation classes a while back I discovered visualisation – you know, when you picture yourself walking out over a rainbow, or in a rocking chair in a room with a quietly ticking clock or walking alongside a river, through meadows, brushing the grass as you pass…? I can do one of those any time. You just decide where you want to be to start with and your mind somehow does the rest – it even supplies the journey for you, you don’t have to make it up. Every now and then a rabbit might appear on the path, or a frog on a lilypad, or maybe, surprisingly, the sun will choose to set…

3 thoughts on “To be a fly on the wall

  1. You have such a rich imagination! For years I have called upon similar memories of places and people long gone as a meandering way to lull myself to sleep. I also like to revisit places that I’ve travelled to in my mind – it is strangely comforting. And eavesdropping is an underrated source of entertainment!

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s