Day 272: I Am Back From New York

"Do you mind gutting fish?" I asked the pathologist once, wide-eyed with wonder. He looked at me sideways. "I'm a pathologist", he murmured. Had he been less kind he would have patted my hand.

Several months later, we were standing outside a shop. "You'll like it in here", he said, and opened the door.









"What are THEY?", I yelped, pointing at the stripey things.

"Chipmunks", said he.

"Like the ones in your wood?"

"Yes".

"Will they eat the ginseng?"

"Possibly."

"And squirrels. Little fuckers. I hate squirrels."

"I know you do", said the pathologist.

Time passed. We went to look at dogs playing in a park. There were women and whippets in coats. None of them were fat.



Later that night, in the hotel bar, the pathologist was chatted up by three men.

"YOU. ARE. SO. GAY!", said the tiniest of them.

"Am I?" said the pathologist.

The tiny man's bald friend inspected the pathologist's hands.

"So soft!", he sighed.

"He wears a lot of latex", I replied.

"But not gay. No. No manicure", sighed tiny man.

The following day we went to the park. Instead of an Easter egg, the pathologist gave in to my incessant demands for a go in a carriage. I chose one with a happy horse, a jocular driver and a number of fake flowers and Irish flags. "Can I hold your hand under the rug?", I bellowed. "Yes", said the pathologist. We followed all the other carriages in a line. It snowed, and the man driving the carriage pointed things out, like the towers that were in Ghostbusters and the skating rink that was in everything. "How interesting!", I squeaked in insincere tones. (The driver took our picture: in it, I am doing a double thumbs up, and the pathologist is wearing a backwards casquette.)

We were maudlin for much of the afternoon, pushed to the edge of reason by an oat bran muffin eaten at a table with yellow rice stuck to it. "I resisted fried chicken", said the pathologist gloomily, picking out raisins. "I hate raisins. And there are only two in it anyway." I complained about my leg and hopped down the stairs. We went back to our hotel, where I tossed fitfully on the bed whilst the pathologist turned the pages of the New York Times quietly and like a mouse.

There was a comedy show in a place with beer after that. We queued in the cold; the pathologist suggested I go to the pharmacy to keep warm aware, as he is, of my great love of the North American 'drugstore'. The comedy was very good, despite the "woops" of the Californians on the Leprechaun bus.

The next morning we ate egg, took cabs, didn't queue, went to things that were closed, and travelled the length of Manhattan looking for donuts which were not available on Monday, despite their creator's support of Hilary Clinton. We drank capuccino at the bar of a man with an unsuccessful hair transplant who made a Shirley Temple, talked about the weather and maraschino cherries, and asked us to "stop by" next time we were "in town". We didn't tell him about the pigs.






















We left the transplant man and went and found our suitcases, which we put in separate taxis. The pathologist went left to California to talk about his nemesis, and I went right to ride upon an aeroplane filled to the brim with pug-faced Brummie schoolchildren, who ate crisps all the way back to Amsterdam.

It is strange without the pathologist, but I will leave it there: for nothing is more boring than that sort of story.