I like the thought of being in tune with nature. And what better way to commune with Mother Nature than having the paste of you battered into the soil? Your brains will feed the wild mushrooms, your blood will quench the parched forest floor, little bits of what was once your wallet will prompt seedlings to grow, proud and strong, inching towards the sun.
It doesn't even make sense to talk about us and the earth and the mushrooms and the sun as separate things. We are all one big cloud of stuff, churning and bubbling. We spend most of our lives pretending that this isn't true. We build concrete offices and metal cars and denim overalls to partition the unpartitionable. It's as futile as placing a wine rack in the sea.
That's why I yearn for the careless lumberjack. I'll cover myself in greenery, camouflaged against the bush, and wait for the chainsaw (or, preferably, the noble axe) to eat into the trunk of the barkéd beast. Judging its descent trajectory using my brain, which was itself a tree-like thing, some way back down the evolutionary road, I will hurl my sturdy frame under the plummeting wood.
For a moment, the lumberjack will be scared. He'll instinctively shout "look out!" (if he's as Canadian as I assume he is), but there will be no time. In two seconds flat, my skeleton will have become a memory. It will be death and burial at a single stroke.
The lumberjack will soon realise that no tragedy has taken place. This is just a communion between atoms. We do not mourn the flour kneaded into the dough. We realise that the flour is a part of the dough, and that the resultant bun depends upon the flour, the milk, the yeast(?), the rolling pin. Weep not for the ingredients, for they have always been bun, and forever shall be bun.
At the lumberjack's inquest, held in a shack of corrugated iron, a company official will check that the proper safety procedures were followed. They will have been followed. The proper safety procedures don't allow for a camouflaged man, emboldened by an unusually close relationship to Gaea.
The lumberjack will be cleared of any wrongdoing, as of course he should be. He should not be punished, he should be praised. He is the catalyst for holy reabsorption.
A small stone will mark the spot of my departure, though departure it is not. It is an arrival. I will return into open arms.
And in thousands of years, I will have become the soil, I will have become the tree, I will have become the stone. I will mark the future departure/arrival of another brave soul, who has stood under the shadow a falling trunk and known what it means to be part of the universe.
We live near the John Radcliffe Hospital now. Our flat is only five minutes' walk away, which is a real comfort. It means that if we ever get seriously injured, help isn't far away.
We probably wouldn't even need to phone for an ambulance. And I'm very grateful about that. I'd hate to have to call an ambulance - it would be really embarrassing. I don't even like phoning for a taxi. There's something emasculating about asking someone to take you somewhere. It's an admission of impotence. That's why I never take taxis, trams, or aeroplanes. I don't want to admit to BA that I'm incapable of traversing the Atlantic under my own steam.
An ambulance is even worse than normal transport. Not only are you in someone else's vehicle, dependent on their skills, but you are - most likely - disgusting. No-one gets in an ambulance when they're neat and tidy. Maybe a coma would be OK, but there would probably still be things leaking and dribbling. Retention of body contents becomes secondary to the retention of life. There might be blood, tears, entrails; even filthy bullets falling out of you. It would be mortifying. Literally.
I don't even like spilling milkshake in someone else's car. I've never actually done that, but I worry about it all the time.
So I'm hugely comforted by the closeness of the hospital. Even if our injuries are severe, we should be able to drag ourselves along to A&E in only a few hours.
It does have a downside, though. Sometimes, we get the bus home. (You'll notice that I didn't include buses in my list of never-taken transport. That's because I didn't want to contradict myself. I changed it to "trams", and you were none-the-wiser.)
The stop at which we get off is one of the last on the route. The bus's final stop is at the hospital. I always hope that people will get off before us, or at our stop AT THE LATEST. If they don't, I can be reasonably sure that they're going to the hospital and probably have a terminal disease.
I saw someone I know on the bus last week. I know her, but I don't know know her. I know her name and face. As the bus journey neared its end, I began to get worried. I'd never seen her on the bus before, and our stop was getting closer. She didn't move. When we finally disembarked (or "alighted", for fans of digraphs), she was still there, sitting in her seat, staring straight ahead, her handbag clutched to her chest, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and watery, her hands trembling, her mobile phone on silent.
She rode on.
On to the hospital. Or one of the other stops before it.
She's probably already dead, I thought, later that evening.
But she wasn't dead. And still isn't. I saw her on the bus after that. She must live round there. Also, I made up the stuff about the handbag and the breathing and the eyes and trembling and phone. But still, for a minute, I was quite concerned that she might be heading straight to the morgue. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. It's useless. Coroners don't accept tips.
I have too much empathy - that's my problem. I can't be on a bus without thinking everyone else is at death's door. That's empathy, right? Or is it that other thing?
Sometimes we hear sirens. They're not a nuisance; they're a joyous reminder. They remind us that we're not in an ambulance.
There but for the grace of God go we: making small-talk to the paramedics, trying to retain our dignity amidst all the coughed-up tongues.
Hope is not a prerequisite for writing. In fact, it's probably detrimental. Who needs to write when you have hope?
If you have hope, you don't need to do anything. You just need to wait.
Hope makes people complacent. That's why the world is only ever changed by people who know, in their heart of hearts, that nothing they do will ever make any difference.
There. That's the blog post started. It'll all be easy now.
I have an itch I can't scratch. It's on my leg, but not my actual leg. The leg is a metaphor for something. It's not in plaster, but it's definitely broken. I can't scratch it because I've bitten my fingernails down to smooth banister-ball spheres.
The leg and the nails are metaphors, but I'm not sure what for. The itch is a metaphor too, but all itches are metaphors. Itches aren't things. Not real things. They're just constructs of the mind that help us deal with emotional trauma and political corruption.
No-one has ever photographed an itch. Except maybe for scientists, who have special cameras that show cells and nerves all small. But until I see an itch with my own two(?) eyes, I'm going to continue to scepticise the whole operation.
I've just bought an iPod.
That's something proper to talk about. People like hearing about other people's gadgets and so on.
My old iPod is broken. I've had it since 2006. It has seen me through a lot of tough coach journeys. But the earholephone jackhole stopped working ages ago.
I could have got it fixed, but it was on its last legs anyway. It seemed like the right time for it to shuffle function off this mortal coil.
This is the only This Mortal Coil song I have on my iPod.
I'm going to play this to accompany my iPod's funeral. It will be Viking-style. I'll place it on a wooden boat, with its headphones clutched to its clickwheel chest, and will push it out into the North Sea. A better place awaits. Valhalla needs electronics. Many Norse heroes are still using Walkmans.
Seven years is (for all I know) a long time to have spent with a piece of electronic equipment. We have been intimate. It has been inside me, and I have been inside it (with a white cable). I have played that brick-breaking game that's on it. I've changed the menu settings.
When I first heard listened to its music, I was only twenty-three. I was beardless. I have grown. The Pod has grown with me.
At first, its 30GB capacity seemed to be infinite. Just like mine.
But now it creaks under the weight of its own contents. I've had to expunge it of almost every podcast, just to cram a few new albums into the hull.
Same with me, but instead of podcasts, it was... teeth or something.
At a certain point, we outgrew each other and ourselves.
It will take some time to forge a new relationship with my newPod. When it is delivered, I will have to face the brunt of novelty. Sure, it has four times the capacity for music, but does it have the same capacity for LOVE?
It should have a greater capacity for love. The technical specifications made it quite clear that it does. If the love capacity isn't as advertised, I'm going to ask for my money back.
***
At my desk, with my eyes closed and my fingers clasped pincerlike over the bridge of my nose.
"Are you OK?" they ask. "Are you dying?"
"I'm not dying."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm not dying. I'm thinking."
"Are you thinking about dying?"
*long pause* "Yes."
***
I'm not going to delete any of this because I'm defiant.
You don't need to have a backbone to be defiant. Some worms are defiant, as well as some "mist birds".
***
It's a few days later. I'm indicating this by using a different font and colour. I was waiting until I had something upbeat to finish the entry with, but nothing sprang to mind. It's Saturday morning now - the best time of the week - so I feel a bit more equipped to lighten the mood. I just had a pain au chocolat. I haven't even re-read what I wrote yet. Let's do that now. (You don't have to read it again. That would be a terrible burden.)
...
Oh. That wasn't great until I got to "mist birds".
My new iPod still hasn't arrived, so it hasn't been that long.
Another reason that I didn't publish the post was that I couldn't think of a photo to accompany it. I usually start off my posts with an image tangentially related to the subject-matter. But it can't give away any of my hilarious remarks. If the image was of some "mist birds", for example, it would ruin the surprise when I eventually mentioned "mist birds". I'm going to finish this now. If I feel like writing, I can always start another one. But, if I do, it will be in my original font. I still need to sort out the photo. How about... something to do with Zorro? There. I've ruined the surprise, but at least... Zorro.
To be fair, it has only been a couple of months. But those two months have contained more misery than the whole of my twenties. My twenties were great.
But, thinking about it, that seems to be the pattern of my life. I seem to be on a bad decade/good decade cycle. It's a convenient way of apportioning joy and despair. It makes for few surprises. It's the only sensible way to sort things out. It's like racial segregation: simple, sensible, and beneficial to everyone.
My first decade, from ages 0-10, was great. What's that decade called? My noughties? I never liked that. Let's call it my zeroes.
My zeroes were fantastic. There were a few years that I can't remember, but I assume they were fine. I spent most of the decade eating jam sandwiches cut into triangles, watching Puddle Lane, and wearing colourful pyjamas. It was a golden age. I think I even liked school at first.
All my laundry and shopping and sock purchases were taken care of by my parents. I lived like a prince.
In my teens, everything changed. Ages 10 to 20 were a dark time. My body began to develop into something strange and unwieldy. My neurosis developed along with it. School became painful. My peers were all cooler and swearier and more confident than me. My sandwiches were cut into authoritarian rectangles. My pyjamas became drab.
My parents still took care of my laundry etc, but I was now of an age to feel guilty about it (and yet too lazy to take on any extra responsibility). Bleak, bleak times.
After the dark ages of my teens, my twenties were a renaissance. I'd survived my first year of university, and had developed many key skills (such as drinking and downloading mp3s). I had some friends. I even managed to ensnare a wonderful woman with my charms and actual snares.
The decade was a non-stop rollercoaster of fun, parties, satisfying creative endeavours and personal growth. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might think that I complained all the time during my twenties. But that wasn't real complaining. I was just experimenting with gripery, just as some people experiment with ecstasy or making your own sandals. I was happy all the time, throughout my twenties.
Even the parade of dull jobs, the lack of money, and the weary, bleary, feary, teary, smeary film of fatigue, were all exciting and fresh.
I was now able to cut my sandwiches into any shape I wanted! I could go back to the triangles! (I never did, but I theoretically could. That was the important thing.)
My twenties were certainly roaring. And that's not just because I lived in a lion sanctuary for the whole of 2005.
Almost instantly after turning thirty, things became bleak once again. I was ill, then I moved house, then... well, that's it. But there are a million micropain (that's French for small bread) crumbs in the cracks.
Once again, my pyjamas are drab. In fact, I don't even have pyjamas. Before bed, I just cover myself in grey paint. The brush tickles, and my sheets need changing constantly.
It's a difficult time. But hope is around the corner. If this good decade/bad decade pattern continues, my forties are going to be fantastic!
Life begins at forty, they say. And ends at fifty. Then it begins again at sixty. Then, if you're still alive, you'll have an eighties to remember (dementia notwithstanding).
The natural world has a way of making everything predictably fantastic and awful. God bless science. Without it, our lives would just be a meaningless soup of triumphs, tragedies and Terry Joneses.
But now, thanks to whoever discovered it, we can live in clearly delineated troughs: one of saltwater, one of fresh. The only things mixed are our metaphors.
It's harder for me than it is for them. At least they're doing something. The thing they're doing is futile, but at least it is a thing. I am forced to sit and watch. If I could help, I would. But no-one can help. Not even Field Marshal Printer (inventor of the printer) can help.
Something is caught in the gears. The gears are inaccessible. The something is paper. Paper can break apart and stuff itself in small areas.
But if it's your printing, it's your problem. You have to press buttons, and open trays, and fiddle around in an inky undercarriage. You know that you can't solve the problem. But it's your printing. You are paying the price for not copying something down by hand. You could have transcribed it with a pen, but you were too lazy. Now you are being punished.
It's horrific. I don't want to watch, but I can't look away.
***
That's not a good start to a blog post. And it wasn't even the first one I thought of.
The first blog opening was something about a song called Don't Get Me Wrong (for Christmas).
You see? "Don't get me wrong" is a phrase, and you also "get" things for Christmas. You see?
That's why I went with the printer thing. But that yielded nothing.
My third idea for a blog opening was to start with the second idea, then write about it from the perspective of a disappointed blogger (incorporating the first idea), followed by a meta-comment on the third idea.
My fourth idea was to come up with a hilarious, surreal fourth idea.
That didn't work either.
Now I have to write something genuine. About my feelings or something.
That's a real drag.
When you get tired of "concepts" and "angles", you get stuck with honesty. Honesty is like a packet of crackers: impossible to swallow without water.
My main problem is that I lack 'the three cons': confidence, concentration and oh, this is a good song:
You might not have liked it, of course. I'll tell you what. I've just got some coffee. When it's cold enough to drink it, I'll drink it. Then I'll come back and we'll see what is what and what isn't.
Deal?
***
OK. I am drinking coffee, but it is now a day later. I wrote all of the above yesterday. I can't even remember what I said.
I'd better re-read it, or I might come across as ill-informed.
Oh dear. There's not much of merit up there. Also, I mistook the word 'write' for the word 'right', though I have since corrected it.
I watched the first episode of The Walking Dead last night, and found it quite boring. Zombies are boring.
I wouldn't like to dismiss a whole genre - I'm sure there are lots of interesting interpretations out there - but zombie films tend to be a bit repetitive. Also, having a mindless, relentless threat doesn't interest me. They might as well be fighting ageing. It's just a slow fight for a worthless survival, with bad make-up.
It might be because I don't find zombies scary. I think I need my killers to have some kind of free will. Or at least the power of speech.
How many times can you watch a groaning mannequin get shot in the head? Only a few dozen. I used to play Resident Evil, and at least with that you got to do the shooting yourself. The trouble with using a zombie apocalypse as your status quo is that there's not really anywhere to go from there. Hope is limited to a long, dangerous search for beans.
But The Walking Dead might well improve. You can't judge anything on its first episode.
I also watched the first episode of the new Black Mirror series. I thought it was the best one yet - it was a bit more emotional and less overtly shocking than the previous ones, which made it all the more unsettling. And the lighting was great. That's right: the lighting. I'm not normally someone who comments on lighting (unless someone is shining a torch on my cress experiment), but there was a weird, flat, naturalistic light that made it seem real and cold, and not like a TV programme.
Hey, this has turned into an actual blog post! I don't know what I was thinking yesterday. I should delete everything above the second set of asterisks, but (as you know) I like to give people some insight into my process.
***
I haven't been on Twitter much lately, because I've been joked to death. There have been a series of news stories that have been tailor-made for terrible and repetitive jokes.
(Before I go on, I should say that I also do terrible jokes. I'm not criticising them for that - I am one of them. I was just overwhelmed by the sheer volume. Also, some of them were probably good jokes. Yours was probably one of the good ones.)
This happens every now and then - an event will cause everyone to joke on the same subject. But lately, it has been relentless.
There was the whole horse meat thing. Then there was the Richard III thing. Somewhere in there were Chris Huhne's driving lies. And now the Pope has gone and resigned too.
Everyone is feverishly plundering their back catalogue of horse jokes, king jokes, speeding jokes and Pope jokes. That's a lot of jokes.
The only thing worse would have been if there was some fish or cheese-based story. People would have been able to tweet funny haddock/headache remarks and things about Edam.
It wasn't that the jokes were awful, it was just that EVERYONE seems to be doing them, and they all seem to think that their version is original. Twitter has fostered an environment where funny people don't just say funny remarks that occur to them, but sit at their computer actively trying to produce comedy. That's what I used to do anyway.
Then there are professional writers and comedians, who are doing the same thing.
And people still think their Pope joke has never been done before. THEY HAVE ALL BEEN DONE BEFORE.
This breeds a secondary twitter joke movement: the combination joke. Everyone has joked about Richard III and horse meat, so why don't we combine the two! Brilliant! What about adding Huhne to the mix! And the Pope!
If you mix enough derivative remarks in a blender, you might end up with an original cocktail!
Then emerged the tertiary approach (of which this blog might be an example), where people make jokes about the proliferation of jokes. They show themselves to be aware of the phenomenon by making a meta-remark.
It's thoroughly exhausting. I really hope there's some terrible tragedy today, so that people stop trying to be wry. (I don't really hope that)
Having spent all this time complaining, I should say that this is entirely my problem. It's not too much of a chore to avoid Twitter for a bit. People should tweet whatever they like, and I'm sure they're amusing lots of people. I don't want to end all Twitter jokes, I just can't cope with such a concentrated stream being blasted into my face.
The solution is to turn away. Turn away and then gripe about having to do so, even though the human neck is built to accommodate such a burden.
***
I'm like a professional writer. My confidence, concentration and [THIRD WORD BEGINNING WITH 'CON'] have gone through the roof!
All because it isn't yesterday anymore. Unless you're reading this tomorrow, in which case it is.
I should probably finish on a horse/Huhne/Richard III/Pope joke.
Hmm.
Exhume... ExHuhne... Ex... Benedict... something "at a Vaticanter"...?
The bullet used to play poker with the lungs every Thursday. But now Thursdays were empty.
The left kidney had a wicked sense of humour. Many was the night that the bullet and the left kidney stayed up for hours, laughing, watching TV, drinking beer, setting the world to rights.
The bullet missed the liver most of all. They had always just "clicked". They didn't spend a lot of time together, but when they did, there was a depth to their conversation that was quite incredible. When the bullet's marriage was breaking down, the liver was always on the end of the phone, willing to chat. It was never preachy. It just listened and sympathised. It would offer advice, but the liver wasn't a know-it-all or busy-body. It just wanted to help.
The bullet even missed the small intestine, even though the small intestine had been selfish and messy and perennially self-destructive.
The bullet missed them all.
Of course, there was Skype. But it wasn't the same.
***
♪ ♫ A treat! A treat!
A comedy conceit!
From the pen
of Paul!
The funniest man
of all!
The sentence was ambiguous!
The metaphors were contiguous!
He squeezed every last dro-ppppppppppppppppppppppp
I need to write this. If you don't mix concrete, it sets. If you don't poke your brain into the occasional consciousness-spasm, it becomes one of the lesser organs (such as the kidney or back), and will never be conscious again.
It's hard going, though. I don't think I've been aware for much of the day, let alone alert. I certainly haven't been astute, or abuzz. People around me seem to be better at dealing with Mondays. There are wares, lerts, stutes and buzzes all over the office. They are the dragonflies to my swamp, the real gnomes to my plaster gnome, the sparkling water to my still. The Earth is teeming with life. But not on this chair.
I'm not thinking about anything. I'm not mulling. I'm not - and this is key - looking forward to anything. I can't even remember what it was like to do that. I'm not even looking forward to going home, because our new home isn't home yet. So I'm just killing time until... what? Until I'm arrested on suspicion of timeslaughter, I suppose.
Not timemurder. Timemurder requires some kind of planning or intent, and as I've already said, I'm not able to look forward to anything.
Yes, this opening has been a little bit downbeat. Luckily, I've been joined by a wisecracking Brooklynite hand-puppet!
She can't type of course. And won't have any bearing on my writing. But she's here. Not on my hand; that would hinder my typing. But she's lying there on the desk, for all you know. Think of the things she might be saying, or might be potentially saying. Think of the edgy dances she might be able to do when animated by a hand. It would really liven us up, wouldn't it? Her light - her neon backwards baseball cap - will shine a light on my darkness.
If she's real - and she is real - she can turn this whole thing around. It'll be wonderful. It won't matter how little consciousness I have, because I'll be using a hand-puppet. She'll say something, and I'll act surprised, even though our voices will have come from the same brain, which is no longer setting like concrete because of all the complaining and the puppet (which I think I mentioned earlier).
We know she's from Brooklyn. We know she's female, and we know she's a puppet. But what kind of being is she? An animal? Many hand-puppets are animals, from Kermit the Green Frog, to Sky TV's DJ Kat the cat.
Or is she a puppetised human form, like Judy? Or an abstract or "unexisting" organism, like Zig?
As she definitely exists and is on the desk, I can just look at her and tell you.
...
She's a witch.
What's her name? All puppets have name(s), except for... you know... that one with the matchbox hair? Him.
Does my puppet have a name? She must. But I can't discern her name just by looking at her. I need to ask her.
But she can't answer unless she's being hand-moved and surrogately voiced.
Unless she's wearing a name tag.
Oh, she is. She exists and is wearing a name tag. Her name is Lawrence.
Lawrence the Witch.
She's brightened up my mood and no mistake.
Good old Lawrence the Witch.
Discussing you was certainly an improvement on what I'd written before.
***
I COULD HAVE DONE A JOKE ABOUT RICHARD III. ISN'T THIS BETTER?
Pancake Day.
There. That's something to look forward to. I haven't tossed a pancake for a long time. It will be fun to do that. It's all about confidence. The only impediment to a successful pancake is fear. If you will it to spin, spin it it shall.
I'm going to mark Pancake Day on our calendar with a circle. Then I'll do a big red 'X' over each passing day leading up to it.
We don't have a calendar, though. We genuinely don't. And now it seems too late to buy one. It's not the wasted money that I have a problem with. A twelfth of the cost isn't that much really. It's just that they don't seem to be available anywhere. People don't tend to buy calendars in February, so shops don't tend to stock them.
eBay. That's the answer. I bet they have calendars from all of the previous human years. If I wanted a 1998 calendar, they'd have one.
The 2013 one is only, like, half the price of the 1998 one. Probably to compete with the internet. You can find all of the 2013 days online, for free. The calendar makers have had to cut costs and lower standards.
Back in 1998, the internet was at an embryonic stage. Most day information was only available as hard copy.
I'll purchase a calendar (not necessarily the Tranmere one - that was just an example to support my eBay-has-calendars argument), and circle Pancake Day, and do all of the things that I mentioned before.
It's a plan. I'm looking forward to something, and my brain is working well. That's what writing a blog can do for you.
You can be just like me if you write a blog. Start your own. Take a page out of my book, and you'll be happy and healthy and all zesty and nice.
This is going to be an excellent week for all of us.
Liz's phone went off, and she rummaged around in her bag to find it. She wanted to find it quickly, because her ringtone became unbearable after about ten seconds. The first five seconds were an electronic chirrup, the second five seconds were some kind of clapping, and then the unbearability kicked in.
She answered it on nine.
"Hello?" she said. She turned her face away from Mr Ku, so he couldn't see what her mouth was feeling. After a few seconds of listening to a question, she said "it's... not bad".
Mr Ku triumphantly popped his paintbrush into an empty tin and started to whistle.
It was Friday, and everyone wanted to get off early. Richard - Joanne's boy - had already packed his stuff into his rucksack. There wasn't enough stuff to justify a rucksack and he wore it on only one shoulder, so it sagged like a hollow pear.
He raised his eyebrows at Mr Ku. Mr Ku replied with a thumbs up, and Richard smiled. He started to text someone, holding his phone on the opposite side to the sagging rucksack. Every now and then, it would slip down his shoulder, and he'd shrug it back on. Mr Ku rolled up sheets.
Liz was still on the phone. The person on the other end had been speaking for quite a while, but Liz had lost interest. She had faith in her ability to mask her inattentiveness with a vague conclusive remark.
"Well, what can you do?" she said. "Yep. Speak to you tomorrow."
She ended the call and looked back at the wall. Her time away from it had not improved matters. It looked worse than ever.
"Right," said Mr Ku, who had bundled up sheets and brushes and tins and an old-fashioned metal lunch box all together in his arms. "We'll be off then."
Richard had finished his text, and slid his phone into his shirt pocket.
"Have a good weekend," said Liz.
"You too," said Mr Ku.
"You too," said Richard as well, though they were slightly out of sync.
After they had gone, Liz walked over to the wall, and put her face so close to it that she nearly got paint on her nose. She squinted and took four big steps backwards. It was definitely a bad wall.
Richard knocked gently on the door and came straight in. "I forgot my gloves," he said.
Liz was still staring at the wall, and made no sign that she'd heard or seen him. Richard followed her gaze to the wall. Then he looked back at Liz, then back at the wall. He furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth to speak. Liz was still staring, and was clearly not happy.
He took a few steps over to the wall, leaned down, and turned the plug socket on. The effect was immediate. Liz took a step back in shock. Her eyes widened.
Richard gave a little embarrassed smile. Liz looked at him with amazement. Then she looked back at the wall. She cantered about the room, looking at it from different angles.
Richard gave a little silent wave and headed towards the door.
"Now that," said Liz, "- THAT - is a good wall." She put her hands on her hips and drank it all in.
"It's not bad," said Richard, and then he let himself out.
***
I don't know what that was. It's probably not important.
