Half life

Darkest thoughts

Carole Morin

The thing about London is that you can go up on the roof of your building without getting a vertigo attack. My roof is high enough for a view of the stars, but nowhere near that dizzy New York height that pro- vokes a reckless ambition to jump off.

Last night I was at a loose end at 3.07 a.m. after watching my On the Waterfront video. Eva Marie Saint visits her roof, wearing a Mary Magdalene nightgown, to meet, accidentally on purpose, Marlon Brando for a kiss. After a quick look in the magnifying mirror to make sure my nose was still free of blackheads, I draped my grandfather's greatcoat over my pyjamas and went upstairs to have a wee chat with God. Because my lips move when I'm talk- ing to God, I prefer to be on the roof before starting up the conversation. That way, if Dangerous Donald wakes up he won't think I've lost the pineapple.

I used to imagine God with the face and hairdo of Grandfather Money, but these days he looks more like my mother. Of course Maddie — as she keeps reminding me — is 'closer to death than birth' after her recent heart attack. And she looks more like Grandfather every time I see her, especially when her face is still in the dress- ing-table drawer. She was outraged to be directed towards the Men's Changing Rooms last time she had the courage to face a public swimming-pool. Women often become more masculine with age, growing beards and going bald; while old men are sometimes given saggy middle-aged breasts.

Climbing upstairs — never trust an ele- vator — I practised acting casual so that God wouldn't immediately assume that I wanted something. Father Batchelor disap- peared before I finished converting to Catholicism, but I have a feeling it might be a mortal sin to ask for a favour. On the other hand, God must be bored sick sitting watching everything all the time. Christians are usually cowardly — only nice to you so that you'll be nice back. God's dead glam- orous; though omnipotence must be more fun than omniscience or omnipresence. Thoughts like that make sense in the dark.

Sticking my head out of the hatch, I was outraged to discover the porter and his wife Rachel — a friend of mine — enter- taining her Irish sister. You expect a crowd at the weekend, but not on a Thursday night when some people have to work in the morning. 'Know any spare men?' Rachel asked.

`Or unhappily married ones,' the sister added.

`She's in London looking for a man,' Rachel explained. Bob the Porter shifted uneasily in his green-and-white striped deck chair.

`I'll make a list,' I said, mentally calculat- ing how many men I'll need to warn about this Irish hussy's temporary residence. There is a smoothie in the basement with liquorice hair and a 60s sports jacket. Maybe if I light a couple of candles he'll get trapped in the lift with her.

Rachel offered me a stolen cheese sand- wich. During the day, she's a waitress in the local kaff where she gives away most of the over-priced stock while her owner's back is turned. 'No thanks,' I said, 'it might give me nightmares.'

`Some laugh,' she scoffed. 'If there was any chance of that you wouldn't be up here in the middle of the night.'

Old Anna, the woman who beheads 'Lights ... cameras ... execution roses with a giant pair of scissors in the communal garden, tried to push her way in. 'There was a swan arrested the other day,' she told us. Rachel slammed the lid on the sandwich box, giving her a warning look. I did see a swan with a policeman in Blomfield Road on Tuesday, but didn't want to prolong this conversation. Old Anna doesn't cleanse her underarms care- fully. She wandered off muttering, 'I've lived in this building since before it was built.'

We shared an embarrassed silence. When I see Old Anna at Mass, I pretend not to recognise her in case she tries to kneel beside me. It's hard work taking an interest in smelly old ladies and available Irish tarts when you're trying to have a good gloom-balloon with God about sin and salvation.

`That old bitch gets her thrills cutting the heads off flowers,' Rachel said. Everybody laughed.

`I have to go say my prayers,' I said, standing up.

`She's a card, isn't she?' Rachel asked. Nobody answered.