I Forgive You, Mommy – for Everything

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Forgiveness is my gift of liberation to myself

I was thinking, as I usually do, about my formative years. You know, those years of which you carry your earliest recollections. How deep does a Mother’s love run? For her children? I mean; I’ve read the books and I’ve seen the movies and still I’m confused. My earliest recollections of my verbal interactions with my mother date back to my pre-school years and continued until her death aged 84 years and one month. It’s funny how these little details stick with one. My parents married in 1950 and were soon told by their doctors that they’d never have children. This suited them down to the ground, especially so, my Mother. She worshipped my Father and was greatly relieved at the prospect of having him “all to herself” for time and eternity.

Things were hunky dory in their little household of two. An idyllic love nest which seemed destined to blossom without the intrusion of interlopers. Mom was as happy as a little pig in the brown stuff and Dad was making his way in the world unfettered by extra concerns and added responsibilities.Life was good and they bought a “dream house” complete with a pair of imposing gates and a horseshoe driveway all set in an acre of manicured garden. A bit indulgent but with two incomes filling the conjugal coffers they lived the life of Riley. Large homes on expansive grounds have never come cheap. And the fifties were no exception to the rule. But, dual income, childless couple with good jobs could manage their chosen lifestyle just nicely.

The following is from my best recollections of my Mother’s intermittent confessions to me. Sometimes touching, sometimes unbearable but never exaggerated. The unbridled truth lumps and all.

One day, towards the end of 1954, after four years’ of idyllic cohabitation my Mother dropped a bombshell. As she later related it to me the conversation with my Dad went something like this. “George I saw the doctor today and I have some news.”

My Father replied; “Really Dear? Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

“No darling, I’m perfectly fine. I’m just pregnant”

“Good God, woman how the hell did that happen?”

That was greeted with acerbic wit and questions as to my Dad’s knowledge of the “birds and the bees” after four years of blissful marriage. Sixty two years later and the poor man is still trying to live it down!

The net upshot of the matter was that I had announced my presence and I was quite determined to go the full distance. I was later told by my Mother the full extent to which she went to terminate her pregnancy with me. Mom jumped off of the verandah, she drank vast quantities of gin while bathing in really hot water. She pulled every old wives remedy to rid oneself of an unwanted foetus. And then she drank some more. She wasn’t going to give up her sole proprietorship on her husband without a battle of epic proportions. All to no avail. Against all odds and in the face of murderous efforts to abort me I hung in and was delivered on May 25th 1955.

The butcher of a doctor who attended my delivery was slow to notice cranial-pelvic disproportion of an alarming level. He proceeded to a “forceps delivery” which was not immediately successful. Not to be denied his scheduled knock off time he then attempted to kill me in the birth canal by plunging the forceps spoons through the fontanelle and into my brain. His plan was to then crush the skull to facilitate a more expedient delivery. I was not amused by these machinations and proceeded to pass through the birth canal with alacrity.

What a fucking welcome to the land of the living! And in my case fighting considerable odds against my survival. And to be delivered to a Mother who later told me, when I was five or six years old, that quite frankly, she didn’t want me. How does a six-year-old respond to and attempt to deal with a statement like that?

Thanks for calling by. And thanks for reading. Heavy subject matter but my truth must out as it’s been eating at me like an acid for nearly sixty years. This is, I hope and pray, my catharsis. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for bearing with me in my journey. More of my story next time. Blessings be upon you and yours. 😉

March 26/27 2017 © Peter Mark Wells-Garnett

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At the End of Nowhere

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The Wanderings of A Mind

While daydreaming just yesterday I tried to recall the things that my Father had either told me directly or had spoken of within my earshot. A poem, seemingly nonsense verse, came to mind. I was astounded at my powers of recall when, as I recited it out loud it just came to me in a steady flow. Here it is, in all of its finery, just as my Father recited it to me some fifty odd years ago. When I was a boy in short pants. The poetic license taken with time and perception made me think of the concept “the end of nowhere” hence my title for this poem by an unknown pen. I would dearly love to sit and chew the fat with the person who wrote this but I fear that the author is long dead.

 

T’was a fine Octobers’ morning in April last July

The sun lay thick upon the ground

The snow shone in the sky

The flowers were sweetly singing

The birds were in full bloom

As I went down the cellar

To sweep the upstairs room

The time was Tuesday morning

On Wednesday late at night

I saw 10,000 miles away

A house, just out of sight

The doors projected backwards

The front was at the back

It stood alone between two more

And was whitewashed; Black

Author: Unknown. © Unclaimed – Old Traditional Writing

The distortion of ‘reality’ and the matter-of-fact depiction of the impossible are literally fantastic. For only in a Fantasy World could the months be entwined, the sun, snow, flowers and birds reverse their places and at an impossible time, the narrator see something 10,000 miles away! It reminds me of Lewis Carrol’s Alice stories. The suspension of belief and the impossible made mundane makes for a quite delightful little story. Perhaps reminiscent of a gentle “acid trip” or a hallucination thanks to Magic mushrooms or Mescaline.

Phantasmagorical imagery coupled with rhythmic flow makes this little poem a poem that I wish I had written. I hope that you enjoy it anyway as I’ve unknowingly kept this to myself, although it’s not mine, for over half a century. I just wish that I could find out who wrote it as I would like to see the credit go where it is due. My father is now 96 years old and he remembers this poem as something his English master posed to his class at school. That must be about 84 years ago and it wasn’t new even then. So heavens knows how old this little poem is but I love it.

Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 01 March 2017

Life With The Tiger

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Background information: – “the lunatic is in the room . . . “

Bipolar disorder is also known as manic depression. Experiencing a bipolar mood cycle is often described as Riding The Tiger. Quite a metaphor, but then a cycle of mania, depression, mania, depression mania is quite the experience, I can tell you. I know because I am one of the millions of people across the globe who have bipolar disorder. That implies that I’m not alone, one of millions. But the reality is that Riding The Tiger is a singularly lonely life. We isolate ourselves as we are shunned by a society that has branded us “unclean”, or that at least, is our subjective interpretation of the state of affairs surrounding our existence in Society.

So, I’m a manic depressive. What does that statement say about me? It sounds eerie, almost as if I’m some sort of a maniac. Somehow it seems to be a state of being of which to be ashamed. It’s an admission of the socially unacceptable. It’s a Mental Illness; an abdication of one’s status as a useful member of Society. It is the assumption of a mantle of disgrace; the wearing of the sobriquet Mental or Lunatic as befits a person of lesser worth. As if anyone is “worth” less than any other person. What a crock!

Well, yes, this would be true if we were living a hundred years ago. In “the old days” families used to hide their “odd” children out of sight. You know, the neighbourhood gossip would come out and say something like; “Have you seen it? The Kingsmans down the road. They have a faulty child. And here I thought they were decent people!” When, all that the Kingsmans, or whomever, had was a perfectly delightful child with Down’s syndrome.

We, as a society, used to lock Down’s children up in the house lest they be seen by “polite society”. Horror of horrors; what would people think? What would people say? Down’s syndrome, Cerebral Palsy, poliomyelitis; they all leave their visible marks on the victim. It makes the afflicted or affected ones easy to spot if you’re after a bit of spite ‘n’ hate. The outward signs of their uniqueness make them easy prey for the bullies among us. Children will stare at those who are different from them because they want to understand why the person looks so obviously different to what they are used to. It is Society’s responsibility to teach children how and why some people are “different” and that they are not defined by their “differentness”. Failure to educate our children in this matter assures that the cycle of bullying and prejudice that people who are different must endure will continue unabated. Insensitive behaviour is bad enough when it’s by children but when adults do it, it is especially hurtful. After all, grown-ups are supposed to protect children and the less fortunate from the nasties. And most of the time the majority of adults do a pretty good job of it. And sometimes they don’t because the pre-teen bully of today is the adult bully of tomorrow.

What happens though, when an individual is different in an invisible way? When the differences are not apparent. Hidden from view. Then, even the “good” adults tend to team up with the nasties and the meanies because that which makes the people in question different frightens them. Yes, I’m talking about mental illness. How the conditions that people suffer from are misunderstood. How people are branded and maligned by a Society which is ignorant and fearful. Yes, there is nothing that fuels fear more than ignorance. It’s like the average person’s immediate reaction when confronted with a snake or a spider. “Kill it!” Even though the vast majority of snakes and spiders are useful to us and in no way potentially harmful to humans. That’s ignorance at work. And so it is with Mental Illness where the sufferers are discriminated against in  all walks of life, socially, professionally and, in some cases, even by the medical professionals appointed to care for them.

A case in point is the current investigation vis-a-vis the deaths of patients transferred from Life Healthcare Esidimeni facilities to questionable private so-called “mental health care facilities” in Gauteng and Kwa-Zulu Natal.

Thanks for dropping by. More on this subject next time . . . until then, sayonara.


Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 01 March 2017

Photograph by Cheryl-Lynn Cranfield © 2016

Wondering Aloud – phase 2

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An episode in the Riding the Tiger series –

Where But for Fate Would We . . .?

I got to thinking just the other day, as I’m wont to do, and it led me to Wondering Aloud. Or, to put it in plainly; talking to myself. This state of affairs prevailed for a while and then I got to wondering what it meant when I answered myself. Mmm, that’s something worth pondering. Especially in the light of the fact that I was answering in the voices of a whole cast of characters. Out loud! Little wonder, if you’ll excuse the pun, that the nice-looking woman outside the store was looking at me strangely. It’s just as well I’m weird otherwise I’d have felt quite self-conscious. Alluding to Jethro Tull, my mind blunted by the gigantic doses of Risperidone that I take to stave off the ever lurking psychosis that threatens to derail me. But, I’ve been taking it for so long it has the same effect on me as a single whisky has on Ben Trovato. Bless His Pointed Little Head. Ah well, it’s Jefferson Airplane this time.

And then, as suddenly as it started, I was off, flitting off on yet another tangent. This time it was back to England and a little-known song from the sixties popped into my head. Quite uninvited, I might add, and proceeded to play with my senses. All of this Progressive Underground Hippy Flower Child Instrumental Interference was really quite strange. “Strangely Strange but Oddly Normal” is the title of the ditty that filled my head. Performed, oddly; there’s that pun again; enough by a British outfit called Doctor Strangely Strange. They were one of the earliest signings to the then fledgling Island Records of London. Chris Blackwell, if my memory serves me, was the driving force. I have an Island Records ‘sampler’ from 1969, or was it ’68? This various artistes offering was titled “Nice Enough to Eat”. This one is volume 1 in a slew of “Nice Enough to Eats” and was compiled of a track from some thirteen Island Records LP releases then current. As my vinyl collection is not presently to hand I’ll have to give you what I remember. Side one, track one kicks off with a lively little number off the “Unhalfbricking” album by Fairport Convention, titled “Cajun Woman”. Upbeat Louisiana Swamp Music Made in England by a group of English upper class ‘hippies’ with Sandy Denny on vocals. This tune then segues into something else and then into something else, etc.

There’s “Time Has Told Me” by Nick Drake off of the album “Five Leaves Left”. He’s dead too at age 27 or so. Nick was yet another addition to the seemingly endless roll of sorrow that is made up of great sixties and seventies musicians all of whom died too young. One blessing is we’ll never see him go to seed and wither with age and infirmity. But that’s a double-edged Katana if ever I saw one!

An alarming number of these prodigiously talented young musicians upped and died at age 27. The list includes the Bluesman who influenced Eric ‘Slowhand’ Clapton, Robert Johnson; “The Doors” frontman, Jim Morrison; the incomparable Janis ‘Little Girl Blue’ Joplin; the ‘Man-With-The-Guitar’  Jimi Hendrix; the Rolling Stones’ Brian Jones and ‘Pigpen’ of “The Grateful Dead”. Later additions to this bizarre ‘club’ have been Kurt Cobain of Nirvana fame and more recently, that lady with the awesome voice, Amy Winehouse.

Where have all the flowers gone? So sang Peter Paul & Mary of a generation of American youth who perished or were maimed in that steamy South East Asian hellhole which was Vietnam. Well, none of the ’27 Club’ died in Vietnam. They didn’t even die of natural causes. Everyone succumbed to the excesses of drugs and booze which fuelled the creative spirit of the 1960s and 70s. Robert Johnson died much earlier, but also at age 27, a victim too, of excess. He was kind of a founding father of the ‘club’, so to speak.

There I go again. Off on a different tangent and I’m not even warmed up! If you’re confused and exhausted you should see the view from my perspective. Man, it’s an amazing sight, this Bizarre Bazaar that is in my head!

Manic depression is not just a condition, Jimi Hendrix wrote a song about it and all that I can add is; it’s A Helluva Drug! But you gotta hold on tight. To your dreams. And come what may!

Until next time, thanks for coming; it’s been a blast!

Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 22 February 2017

Autobiographical Creative Writing also on facebook.com

The Gates of Hell

This is a rewrite of the ending to “Dreaming or Riding the Tiger” published here on 28 January 2017 retitled as The Gates of Hell

TheCelt58Blog

Just Another Day at the Bipolar Motel

Am I dreaming this or is it for real?

I just got to Woodstock and I’m sure that I’m lost

Here’s a crowd of robot-people I’ve never met before.

Please tell me; what’s the fucking deal?

It’s a real weird party without a damn host

Look at all their plastic phony faces

Blathering around the kitchen table

With cocaine spackled nostrils to boast

Oh wow! Tell me something

Is there acid in this punch?

You look like you’re melting

Into something made for lunch.

Oh Jesus! Isn’t it that Rasputin priest?

Crazy-eyed, howling, spitting beast?

I’m slipping and sliding off of the mat,

Into the witch bitch’s brewing vat

Now I’m falling off the damn roof

Sliding back from whence I came

Is this my dream of a cloven hoof

Where I’m exhausted, broken; spent and lame

These goddam pills are fucking killing…

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Wondering Aloud . . .

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Where But for Fate Would We . . .?

I got to thinking just the other day, as I’m wont to do, and it led me to Wondering Aloud. Or, in plain language, talking to myself. This state of affairs prevailed for a while and then I got to wondering what it meant when I answered myself. Mmm, something worth pondering. Especially in the light of the fact that I was answering in the voices of a whole cast of characters. Aloud! Little wonder, if you’ll excuse the pun, that the nice-looking woman outside the store was looking at me strangely.

And then I was off on my next tangent. A song from the sixties popped into my head. Quite uninvited, I might add, and proceeded to play with my senses. “Strangely Strange But Oddly Normal” is the title of the ditty and it was performed, oddly; there’s that pun again; enough by a British outfit called Doctor Strangely Strange. They were one of the earliest signings to the then fledgling Island Records. Chris Blackwell, if my memory serves me, was the driving force. I have an Island Records ‘sampler’ from 1969, or was it ’68? This various artistes offering was titled “Nice Enough To Eat” and was compiled of a track from some thirteen Island Records LP releases then current. As my vinyl collection is not presently to hand I’ll have to give you what I remember. Side one, track one kicks off with a lively little number off the “Unhalfbricking” album by Fairport Convention, titled “Cajun Woman” which then segues into something else and then something else, etc. There’s “Time Has Told Me” by Nick Drake off of the album “Five Leaves Left”.

He’s dead too at age 27 or so. Another addition to the roll of honour that is made up of sixties and seventies musicians who died too young. An alarming number of them at age 27. They include the Bluesman who influenced Eric ‘Slowhand’ Clapton, Robert Johnson; “The Doors” frontman, Jim Morrison; the incomparable Janis ‘Little Girl Blue’ Joplin; the ‘Man-With-The-Guitar’  Jimi Hendrix; the Rolling Stones’ Brian Jones and ‘Pigpen’ of “The Grateful Dead”. Where have all the flowers gone? Well, none of them died in Vietnam. And Johnson died earlier, but also at age 27. Kind of a founding father of the ‘club’.

There I go again. Off on a different tangent and I’m not even warmed up! If you’re confused and exhausted you should see the view from my perspective. Man, it’s an amazing sight!

 

Pell-Mell into Hell – part 3

Living with an uninvited guest

When I was about eight years old I desperately wanted to be a nudist. I used to wander about the house, an upstairs flat at the time, in the altogether and stand at the windows wondering if anyone could see me. In my nakedness. My prepubescent body would tingle with electricity as I imagined being spied upon. It was always most exciting when my parents were home. I had to get bare, evade my parents and simultaneously expose myself at windows with open curtains.  My mother was an unabashed prude. Nakedness was somehow dirty. Like a peep show in Victorian England. Probably pornographic in her estimation. And because she didn’t like it I felt all the more titillated by the act. Then one day I was spoken to very sternly and it was explained to me that such behaviour is unseemly, somehow indicative of unfavourable mental health issues. I was exhorted to desist forthwith. And that was how my career as a nudist was nipped in the bud, so to speak. I was terrified of being shipped off to some ghastly Asylum to be experimented upon by the Dreaded Psychiatrists.

Going about fully clothed seemed like a good trade off. Phew, I’d had a close call there.

I was very taken with the exploits of Biggles in his WWI Sopwith Camel. Biggles was a flyer with the Royal Flying Corps in the 1914 – 18 war in Europe. He cut an heroic figure in his leather flying helmet, gloves and fur-collared flying jacket. Goggles and a scarf topped out his sartorial splendour as he dispatched Boche Fokker Triplanes and the like with admirable aplomb.  These stories came in picture comics, nowadays called Graphic Novels, brought in from England by Central News Agency, now known as CNA. My father had served in the Royal Air Force and he indulged me with these story picture books every week. I became an avid collector and worshipped every fibre of the Biggles character. I lived in my imagination vicariously connected to Biggles through the pages of my weekly comics.

Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if my parents noticed this. Probably not if truth be told. Dad was orphaned at an early age and Mom was the youngest of six in a well-to-do family in which alcoholism was rampant. Neither one of them ideally suited to the raising of children. But then, I’d been a mistake; my mother was told by doctors that she’d never have children. So their lives were sorted, no offspring to worry about and just the pair of them to do as they pleased. And then, WHAM! After five years of connubial bliss I arrived to spoil the party. And what a party it was if the stories that I’ve heard are to be believed. But that is their story and it’s not for me to tell. Well, not here, at least.

So, there we were a wee family of three muddling along at a steady rate. Well, for the parents at least. I was experiencing a winter of discontent although I didn’t know it yet. And winter was about to get a whole lot worse. But that’s for another time.

Thanks for popping by. It’s been fun. See you next time with part 4.

Pell-Mell into Hell – part 2

A Story of Living with Undiagnosed Manic Depression

01 February 2017

I’m convinced that I’m weird. I can always hear a different tune no matter what’s playing on the stereo, radio or tannoy. I’m very apt to march to a different drummer than the regular beatniks of day-to-day life. Lastly, I happen to think too, in alternative voices. Yes, characters who I’ve never met, engage in conversations inside my head.

Go on, be honest. The PC Police aren’t listening and I’m so far past being offended I’ve forgotten how. So, you CAN say it . . .

“You’re freaking nuts!”

Okay . . . That’s a bit harsh. I’m just a little weird. What’s so wrong with that? In the army I was tormented for being out of step. For writing fiction in letters to imaginary girlfriends. Well, real girls, just not my girlfriend per se, just in my imagination. I paid a price for it mind you. And it wasn’t value for money, I can tell you! After all, it’s not as if I was there out of some perverse sense of duty. I was there because the alternative was prison. Unthinkable. Just like the Army. What we call Hobson’s Choice, where you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. Anyhow, I saw no real harm in embellishing my account of the drudge that is army life. After all, surely we were entitled to at least one fringe benefit in return for our indentured servitude. Really, force a teenager out of his parental home, fuck him around unmercifully at the hands of psychopathic sadists, and put him in Mortal Danger. Just for starters! And then; pay him R2.00 per day and expect normal behaviour from him? Who are the weirdos in that little scenario?

This is the life, for the foreseeable future; until November 10th at least, instead of prison. I was beginning to doubt my sanity. But there was more to come.

First thing I got told by some geezer with an insignia of rank on his arm was; “You’re from Cape Town! I know all about you! Smoking drugs and taking dagga! Just try your kak here and see what happens! I dare you!”

Well, did I take that as hot air? As a challenge perhaps? What to do? No too much as it turned out. Remember that fear I mentioned? Well it came home to roost and turned my bowels to jelly and me into a survivor. I didn’t care that some of the guys called me a chickenshit and many things worse than that. My mind was made up. I was going to apply for one of the cushy clerical jobs on the base and I was going to make myself indispensable to whichever PF (permanent force member) I got to work for. It didn’t matter what I had to do to get it, I was determined that I was not going to be sent to the Border where I stood a greater chance of being killed or maimed. It was the South West Africa border with Angola where all the unpleasantness, shooting, land-mining and the rest was taking place. And I wanted no part of the action.

Getting killed or maimed in a senseless conflict on foreign soil appealed to me about as much as being gang-raped in prison. I did mention Hobson’s choice, didn’t I?

Thanks for your visit! I trust that it was worth your while. Until next time . . .

Pell-Mell into Hell – part 1

A Story of Living With Undiagnosed Manic Depression

28 January 2017

I’ve always known I am different. Not in my appearance. I don’t have a club foot or a withered hand. I’m not blind or deaf. I don’t stutter nor do I have facial birthmarks or a cleft palate. All factors for which I have learnt to be immensely grateful.

But gratitude came to me late in life. My “difference” is invisible to the naked eye. Invisible even to the most sophisticated instruments in medicine. My “differentness” lives in my brain. The most complex organic “computer” known to Modern Science. You see I have manic depression. Or, as it’s now referred to in polite conversation; “Bipolar Disaffective Disorder”.

What I want to talk about is what went before. Before my ‘becoming’. When I was timid, afraid and bent on self-destruction. The time between my earliest memories and the present. It’s a miracle that I’ve survived this long and that’s what this story is about. The arrival, the decline and ultimately, the metamorphosis of my being.

No, this is not a story about a guy who “finds God” or some such nonsense about salvation and rebirth “in the Lord”. There are enough such “redemption” tales to sink the proverbial battleship. This is a story of a paradigm shift in the mind. A gradual “becoming” of a lost spirit after decades of searching, questioning, experimentation and, ultimately a journey of discovery and transformation.

Where do I begin? Something about that question reminds me of Alice, The Mad Hatter and the March Hare. “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late; for a very important date” . . . Yeah, I was always late for something. Oft-times the things I didn’t want to do. Go to school, go to church, go with my parents. Many “go tos” and few “oh yeahs” My reluctance and tardiness inevitably ended with a question, born of frustration, from my dad; “What’s WRONG with you, boy?” . . . This question became a mantra of my childhood. Wrong! It’s an awful word. Sounds like wring. “I’ll wring your bloody neck!” And the fear. The fear of everything. From my dad to the guys who collected the garbage once a week. I was fearful of everyone and everything. “If you’re not CAREFUL I’ll take you to a bloody psychiatrist” Most of all I was afraid of being taken to a psychiatrist. Because of the threat I felt that psychiatrists were evil minions of the Prince of Darkness who will send me to a Mental Hospital Prison where they give you Shock Treatment and Cold Water Baths. All in aid of looking inside my head and reading my thoughts. And I couldn’t have that. Not at any price. Because if “they” found out what was in my head I’d have to face it too. And I didn’t know what was hiding in there. And I was scared of finding out. I’d rather have died.

So, I did what I could to operate “below the radar” so to speak.

Thanks for popping in, I hope you enjoyed yourself. See you next time!

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Love’s A Bullet

A Contemporary Tale of Cupid’s Arrow

Love’s a magic bullet to the heart. You still have a pulse after it hits you but you lose control of everything else, especially your mind. That’s the price of survival, it seems. If being rendered comatose with connubial bliss with no instinct for self-preservation can be termed survival. And it’s not just teenagers and late bloomers who are at risk here! Grown men succumb to the bullets in their dozens, falling daily. Women are being smitten too, although they are a bit more adept at concealing their wounds than are the men.

Some say it’s in the wrist, but I’ve seen guys struck dumb by a Bullet of Love at the merest glance from a potential paramour. It’s frightening to behold especially as my personal experience, is still fresh in my memory. It seems like yesterday that I was mortally stricken by one of those infernal projectiles. It happened outside a party in Rosebank, Cape Town. All it took was a split second’s exposure and; BANG! I’d had it. And I’ve still got it. Love bullets play for keeps. The bullet that got me was fired in the winter of 1969 or 70, so I know what I’m talking about. It was so cold I had my hands in my overcoat pockets to keep them warm. So there was no wrist action at all!

Interestingly, the bullet had a mate which struck a nubile young maiden right in front of me. We joined forces almost immediately and are still investigating the phenomenon to this day. Forty seven years later!

Thanks again for popping in and I trust that you enjoyed your reading. Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 28_01_2017.

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