memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

Posts tagged ‘physiotherapist’

Killing goldfish softly

My physiotherapist has developed an idée fixe over the years that whenever I think about any goldfish, it dies.

I think that she is making a rather drastic confusion between cause and effect.

A GOLDFISH TRYING TO ESCAPE

I dearly wish I had that mental power – there would no flies on me anymore.

I wouldn’t restrict my zapping powers to mere goldfish;

I would have other fish to fry.

I would extend it other creatures;

I would attend a Harry Potter-style academy and work my way up the food chain.

I would achieve a BA (Black Arts)

then an MBA (Master of the Black Arts)

and finally a PhD (What’s it All About, Alfie?)

I would then change my identity and appearance but I wouldn’t go for the George Clooney/Brad Pitt look, rather I’d choose that guy in Patrick Susskind’s novel Perfume (must reading, by the way) you know, the pervy little alchemist who could become invisible at will.

(Oh, and while you’re at it, lop off a couple of decades from my age, will ya?)

Then I would sally forth and hire myself out to all the Presidents, Prime Ministers, Chancellors, Dictators, Czars, Sheiks, Kings, Absolute Monarchs, Autocrats, Nutters and Sociopaths with cash to spare.

I would become all the rich and powerful megalomaniacs of the world’s worst enemies’ nightmare. I would become a millionaire, a billionaire, a trillionaire.

I would become The Lord of Darkness.

THE LORD OF DARKNESS

I would be taken up to a high place and shown all the leafy mansions, lobster dinners, Aston-Martins, Rolex waches, private yachts, trophy wives, (trophy mistresses), Armani suits, i-pads, i-phones, i-gots, i-buy-therefore i-am hand-me-down religions in the world and ask Him:

–          OK, now what’s the deal?

But all this is predicated on the hypothesis that I am the man who kills goldfish with his thoughts.

I’m not.

So you  can stand down and relax, goldfish.

Speak hands for me

We are having our gymnasium repainted to cheer it/us up and give some zing and oomph to dispel those Monday morning blues. The colours chosen are three – matt light-green, matt light-orange and matt light some-colour-which-I’ve-forgotten … to Mr. & Mrs. Vinyl-Paint, a son, Matt (and a daughter, Gloss). Heavens, do you remember all those ancient gags? To Mr. & Mrs. Wall-Carpet, a son, Walter etc.

Back to the gym; one day last year, at the end of the lesson, the physiotherapist and her colleague, to give a touchy-feely dimension to the proceedings, painted the palms and fingers of our right hands with (washable) bright paint – blue, red, green or pink – and then we plastered a print of our mitts onto a large white poster … yeah, that’s right, just like a bunch of kiddies in pre-primary school!

(The time-warp again, this time with shades of The Twilight Zone crossed with Monty Python)

Anyhow we all enjoyed it and later bemusedly studied our hand-prints on the two posters, now stuck up on the walls of the gym.

HANDS

(They say that I have the hands of a fidalgo, I boasted to my physio the next lesson; yes, she rejoined promptly, but they didn’t mean it as a compliment!)

So, a few a weeks ago, she gave me the lesser of the two posters and asked me to do my stuff with it – think outside the box, she urged. The idea would be to help decorate the «new» gym.

It’s a work in progress.

HANDS 1

About twenty years or so ago a runner-up for the prestigious Turner Prize for Art was exhibited at the Tate Modern Gallery on the South Bank of the Thames. It was entitled A Pile of Bricks and consisted of a pile of ordinary bricks. It transpired that, in transit to the gallery, the driver of the heavy van stopped at a pub for quick pint, leaving the van in the car-park, the wall of which was being repaired by a couple of workmen … ran out of bricks …. Cut-a-long-story-short … not the same bricks but identical ones … artist outraged … brouhaha … critics divided … literati amused … silly season prank etc. etc.

I fancy my chances with this entry entitled Painter’s Palette

PAINTER'S PALETTE

Of course there is always a danger of someone thinking it’s only a painter’s palette and not a Painter’s Palette.

YELLOW & PINK HANDS

I notice blue hands too

BLUE HANDS

and red hands

RED HANDS

I notice hands

HANDS - by THOMAS MILNER

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