Friday, September 22, 2006

When a dog cries

I'm jabbering into my phone, listening, but not seeing.

"Paper One was a disaster," shouts Mash, his voice raised over the din of what's probably Waterloo Station. It was a farce, I agree. I'd like to meet the shit who set it, preferably in a dark alley.

I cut through a square. I am in a small park.

There's a young lad almost in the middle of it, and he's screaming. I keep talking, seeing properly now, but not quite focussing. The people around me seem frozen. I'm just imagining it; they can't all stop walking, and playing, and talking at the same time. This is London. We don't stop for young lads screaming their heads off. Not at six in the evening, when we're all going home. But no, we have. The football game's broken up, they're staring at the lad. A crisp, linen suited brunette breaks away from the frozen bystanders and cuts across the grass, approaching him.

'Listen, I've got to hang up,' I tell Mash, cutting him off abruptly, as I head to the edge of the circle of onlookers.

I circle, not quite sure whether to intervene. I focus; the boy's hugging a huge brown Labrador. And there's a hell of a lot of blood. Everywhere. On the grass, on the dog, on the lad...question is, whose blood is it?

The woman reaches the young man, kneels, pats the dog and is now speaking to him. He's still yelling, the tears streaming down his face. He's screaming at someone. The woman turns, her eyes scanning the crowd behind her. As she finds what she's looking for, so do I.

A casually dressed man stands almost at the edge of the grass, his face set in grim defiance. He's almost at the edge of the circle of onlookers, but they have parted and are moving away from him, for some reason. He's white, older, clean shaven, probably in his mid-fifties, has grey hair cut neatly back to his scalp and is wearing casual, but expensive, clothes. His left arm, which is extended straight outward, has a leash at the end of it. Straining at the leash is a nasty looking Bull Terrier. I don't like Bull Terriers, they remind me of Pit Bulls. His other hand is in his pocket, and there's a dark stain seeping out through his trousers.

I have a feeling that his dog's been up to no good, and I don't want to tangle with a mad Bull Terrier. I pause ambling, mid-stride, and concentrate on what the boy's yelling.

"E wanted to kill it, the bastard, 'e was goin' fer 'is 'ead, 'e was..!!"

And then, as the woman reached out and touched him on the shoulder, '"Wo wud stab a dog..? Wo wud?", in a sudden flood of tears.

Stab a dog? Surely he means bite a dog?

But the lad's shouting again, " Where d' you think you're goin, hey, heyyyyy, yu bastard, wait fer the police!"

The man shouts something back, pulls his dog, looking even more defiant now, and walks away, staring grimly at the people watching him with barely restrained hostility. The crowd behind him melts.

I break from the crowd and cut across the grass towards the small knot of people around the stricken boy. The brunette's been joined by an older, grey haired woman who looks rather academic. As they turn, I announce, " I'm a doctor. Who's bleeding?"

"It's me dog," sobs the lad, "E's stabbed him in the neck. 'E's goin to die. And 'e's ne'er even 'urt a fly, ever...."

I cut him off, "Well, let's have a look. You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm not, but 'e is.."

The dog, a gentle looking Brown Lab, had a deep stab wound in its neck, which, mercifully, wasn't bleeding all that much anymore. Which was lucky, because whatever had caused it had missed a hell of a lot of major blood vessels. I asked around for cloth or pads or sanitary napkins; anything to put pressure on the wound. Since no one had any, the boy took off his T-shirt and I fashioned a tourniquet. The dog whimpered, and snuggled into my lap as I tied it. And then, I could have sworn the dog cried, burrowing it's head deeper into my lap. In long, slow, whimpering sobs and what I was convinced, at that moment, were tears (It turns out dogs can't have tears, but it sure looked like them to me).

Anyway, it turned out that the dog and the Bull Terrier were playing, then wrestling, on the grass. The lad said it got a bit serious, when the owner of the terrier (the oldish chap) came over and tried to seperate them. When this didn't work, the lad said he'd hold the Lab and maybe, the other guy could prise his terrier away. Not too keen on this idea, the man then calmly proceeded to take out a four inch knife and stick it into the Lab's neck.


It also turned out the boy had been bitten. So, I ended up calling 999, to talk to the cops as well as LAS. Two police cars came in five minutes and an ambulance pulled up soon after. The boy's older brother arrived, threatening violence upon all grey haired men, followed by their mother. The older brother threatened one act of violence too many, which promptly elicited a tight slap from his mum. Which shut him up.


By which time an Asian woman who works at the nearby Waitrose had returned with a basin of antiseptic and pads. And a couple of students had volunteered to give statements.


As I withdrew and walked home, I started to think.

I can understand an older man living alone in Inner London carrying a knife (to a certain extent).

But what kind of a shit would stab a dog?

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Indian football in an Indian summer

Allright, Indian football is such crap that the term is almost an oxymoron. However, hope glows eternal. We are in elite company too, right between Ghana and Italy. The tricolour dreadlocks are not to be missed.

As for lesser teams like Barcelona and Chelsea, they come waayyy below us.

As for the summer, it's 27 degrees on the 21st of September. We feel the presence of Autumn in our bones, but we push the shadow away behind a door ever so slightly ajar and live for the moment. And drink and chatter away at pub tables that we know will be put away indoors all too soon.

'The tram goes by full of legs:
White legs, black legs, yellow legs.
My God, what are all the legs for, asks my heart.
But my eyes
ask nothing at all.'

- Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

Pass the Pinot.

Autumn?

What's that?

Friday, September 08, 2006

Talk to my doctor!!

I've been seeing this kid who's clearly not interested in seeing me. I'd have discharged her off my caseload a long time ago if I'd had any choice in the matter, but she's pregnant and the unborn baby is on the Register.

I started seeing her with Aoife, this really lovely middle-aged rock chick who's a social worker and was my first ally on the job. She, in turn, had picked the kid up from Social Services. When Aoife left, the kid had run up such a record that no one wanted to touch her with a bargepole. Which left me with the baby, it's mother, and the bathwater. Not to mention a frazzled grandmother to be, who was clearly at her wit's end and not coping too well.

Anyway, the kid decided quite early on that she had no use for either me or Aoife. Which meant that whenever she wanted something (like a new flat), she'd call up 999 and say that she was feeling suicidal. LAS would go round and talk to her, she would neglect to mention our existence and off she'd go to hospital. It usually took about two days on some ward and a lot of phone calls before the ward doctors figured out what was going on. And then they'd promptly discharge her. Now we know why the NHS is going bust.

Once outside, she'd get back to form. Which was being as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel. She'd see the midwife, but not us. She'd see the health visitor, but not the GP. We'd land up at her mum's at nine o' clock in the morning and find she'd left 15 minutes ago. The mother often didn't have a clue where the young lady had spent the night and clearly, had reached a point where she couldn't care less.

Anyway, she called me yesterday, much to my astonishment.

The conversation went something like this-

NM: " Hi Jen, how're you doing?"
Jen: "Awrii...."
NM: "How's the baby doing?"
Jen: "Awrii...."
NM: " We're supposed to meet next week, aren't we?"
Jen: "Awri..."
She's not very friendly, as you may have noticed. But still, she called. So, I persevere, gamely.
NM: "So, how..."
At which point Jen decides she'd had enough of this pointless exchange, and says "Listen, there's this guy here that wants to talk to you."
Gruff voiced chap: "I'm Officer Roberts, of the .....Police. Are you the doctor in charge of the care of this individual, named Jennifer Frangou, Date of Birth....., aged ....years?"
NM: " Erm.., yes, I suppose I am, in a way. Why?"
OR: " The said individual has been arrested for assault and is at ..... Police Station. She has stated that she is unwell and is receiving care from yourself, Dr. Nevermindatall of ...... Road. Is that correct?"

Turns out she was at some bus station, where she managed to hook up with some guy who was waiting for a bus. They'd got really friendly, when the said individual's girlfriend arrived. Said individual's girlfriend and Jen had words, following which little Jenny bit a piece of said girlfriend's forearm off.

Charming.

I just love teenagers.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Andre Agassi- 20 years

Just look at this man. Has any one in the history of sport stood their lives on it's head as much as Andre Agassi? Tiger Woods changed his swing, allright. And then there was the shooter who taught himself to shoot with his left hand after losing the right. And won an Olympic medal. But Agassi lost his hair and went from a decade of wild haired punk-dom and Kournikova-ness to All time Great in a matter of months. At the ripe old sporting age of twenty eight. On the back of a shot marriage. He'd already made his zillions in endorsements. He could have just walked away. But no, he decided to grow up. How difficult is it to do that at 28, when you've been running away all your life? Sure, Ken Rosewall played a Slam final at almost 40, but Ken was virtually injury free. And playing in an era of wooden rackets and genteel serves. Did he have to return to Mark Philippousis serving at 140 mph? No.

Did Frau Graf have something to do with it? Probably.

Was there a more awesome sight in tennis than this bald, superbly conditioned, thirtysomething father of two returning a Pete Sampras serve for a winner down the line? Not for me.

Good ol' Andre and his bad back. What a life!

And what a couple! Watch out for those kids. I hear they eat tennis balls for breakfast.
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