Dear Diary,

22^oC and calm.

Do you therefore care to advise me why I am still not happy?

What spiteful tendencies inspire you to:

a) take so long to resolve the issues, and
b) resolve them so superficially that they only expose new ones?

I can forgive the temperature itself. This is a mere number on a scale. It is trivial. It is there to be overlooked as time passes. What I can’t forgive is the malicious spirit with which you have been treating me.

On your previous pages, you have supplied cold hard evidence that a calm 22^oC day would result in me being relaxed, happy, content and all those other things we both know that I deserve to be. When such a day is finally here, its calmness only serves as harsh contrast to my hunger, my pain and… well, let’s call it confusion, but I don’t think it’s that. How does my heart’s desire cause my heart’s defects to stand out so much? Exactly what are you trying to prove?

Whenever sanity is questioned, it is only through my notes from my examination that a conclusion is finally drawn. If you are trying to make me prove myself crazy, I will not condone your behaviour. I realise that it may just be the hunger talking, so I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt… just this once.

I really must teach you a few lessons about conflict resolution. I must tell you about the time when Raymond came to see me about problems with Raymond. Raymond was sick and housebound. Raymond spent a lot of time staying home and looking after Raymond. Raymond would cook. Raymond would clean. Raymond would give moral support to Raymond. Raymond was slowly deteriorating and forgetting the wonders of life’s simple pleasures. Raymond would sit and watch TV. Raymond would repeatedly explain what the shows were about and what happened on the previous episode. Raymond would read the stories in the newspaper out loud. Raymond would always give deep and meaningful details about what the stories meant and how they related to the stories Raymond didn’t remember Raymond describing a day or two earlier. Raymond was forgetting what it was like to be Raymond. Raymond needed help. Raymond couldn’t give all the help that Raymond needed. Raymond couldn’t receive all the help that Raymond needed. Raymond needed to re-discover what it was like to be Raymond.

The problem was that Raymond had caused Raymond to need Raymond so much that Raymond had got to the stage where Raymond could barely be Raymond without Raymond. Raymond was trapped between helping Raymond to be a basic Raymond and going out and finally feeling like a whole, complete Raymond. Standing up to Raymond to achieve this, usually meant that the next day would be spent with Raymond giving Raymond a heavy debrief on the previous night’s tension. The debriefing sessions were always such an emotional strain for Raymond and such a strain on Raymond’s time that Raymond and Raymond’s situation became even more intense than usual. Raymond’s important night out was forever questionable as a good investment for Raymond.

On the other hand, giving into Raymond just made Raymond bitter and resentful. Neither Raymond nor Raymond could win. Neither Raymond nor Raymond could lose. In some funny ways, it seemed that Raymond needed Raymond as much as Raymond needed Raymond.

I told Raymond that the only way to solve Raymond’s problem was for Raymond to think laterally, and set an example for Raymond to do so too. Raymond needed to find a solution to Raymond’s problem that was also a solution to Raymond’s problem. It was here that I told Raymond about my theory of sensory supplementation. Raymond’s memory and his experiences were dwindling, but if Raymond had access to the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of Raymond’s happier days, Raymond would somehow be in touch with Raymond’s former self, and Raymond would be free to be Raymond. Raymond took on the job of tracking down Raymond’s old home movies, the pine cleanser that Raymond’s mother used to use, and the recipe for the onion, watermelon and mayonnaise snacks that Raymond used to enjoy. With these, and a collection of other things that connected Raymond with Raymond’s better days, Raymond was able to somehow regain Raymond’s sense of Raymond. Raymond also had a chance to be Raymond in Raymond’s own right.

You know, I saw Raymond a few weeks ago, just before I came out here. Raymond told me that the whole thing worked like a charm in Raymond’s final days. Raymond told me that, in some funny ways, the day that Raymond died was the day that Raymond died.

Don’t you see, Diary? Finding a solution to the conflict is the way to truly let us be ourselves.

Humans have an unfortunate habit of allowing their misunderstandings to escalate to the point at which they turn into full-blown conflicts before our very eyes. As this changes, so do our conscious desires. Our intention to ‘resolve’ is fed by our spiteful sense of pride and grows into our desire to ‘win’. You obviously won’t give up on ‘winning’, whereas I am still mature enough to just want to ‘resolve’. Therefore, I am offering you my forgiveness, with the knowledge that a resolution accompanies it. You, on the other hand, would probably have enough evidence that I ‘backed down’ and ‘lost’. If you must feel this way, so be it. I give you my blessing. Go ahead, revel in the satisfaction of your supposed ‘win’.

If we are able to accept each other’s point of view, we will have this here solution to my problem that is also a solution to yours. See how easy it is? Clever, aren’t I?

Two days until food arrives from the mainland.

Regards,

Milton

Dear Diary,

Let me tell you a story about another Raymond.

He came to see me because he was suffering three months into his marriage. He was wondering where the spark had gone. He remembered that his courtship and engagement was always filled with romance and wonder: Back-row movie dates with chocolate truffles instead of popcorn (and some naughty fondling), picnics at sunset with champagne and caviar which still had room for his woman’s beloved honey and chocolate sauce sandwiches, nights out with laughs every minute, boat trips, days out in the mountains, serenading each other at karaoke nights, the right mix of dinner at fancy restaurants and cute little lunches at the local taco bar, many a Saturday night with friends when they would stand out as the ‘cute, adorable couple’. The whirlwind romance led to a swift engagement and a wedding ceremony that was filled with classic romance but with a few funny touches (they hired the stand-up comedian who performed at their first date to officiate over the ceremony, and Raymond wore swimming flippers with his tuxedo, to make the penguin look complete).

In a classic case of “the honeymoon is over”, he was sure the magic had gone. He had to work extra hours at the fish market to make ends meet. The traffic was chaotic on the way home, and Mrs Raymond would complain that when he finally came home at 8pm every night, he reeked of fish and sweat. The dinner she had prepared for him had to be re-heated, and he would struggle to hide his disdain for food that he was assured, “Would have been much better if you’d got home by 6:30”. Mrs Raymond would become more and more frustrated that their limited hours didn’t give them enough time to do all of the budget planning, unpacking and housework that was awaiting them. Raymond was frustrated that she was only disappointed that they didn’t get a chance to do these things. He wished she was longing for a bit of romance. Weekends would come and go, often with one of them having some desire to try going out for a bit of fun while the other just wanted to lie face-down on their bed and have this long-awaited chance to rest. He just wanted to know where the magic had gone, and wondered if marriage was a big mistake.

I had to explain to him the difference between falling in love and staying in love. I had to tell him that at first it’s all about finding the magic, and that when the relationship becomes longer and more real, the greatest test of their strength is to use this magic in real-life situations. Their shared passion and understanding would draw them to looking forward to such miracles as a clean house, a balanced household budget and a well-timed, carefully-prepared dinner. I explained that looking forward to tomorrow and living a full today was the key to success, and looking back at yesterday would only leave them open to disappointment.

I took pity on poor Raymond. As well as his troubles with reality, his budgeting problems meant he would have had real trouble paying me for helping him. I had to empower him with a feeling of responsibility. I had to let him feel he had earned my help. I decided to empower him by letting him repay me in another way. Purely for his benefit, I let Raymond feel like he was helping me. I told him to take me and Mrs Raymond out to one of the places where they had spent their magical courtship dates. Just so he could feel like he was fulfilling some sort of responsibility, I told him to teach me how to enjoy a night out in one of these places. Just so he could feel like he was achieving something, when we went to that bar, I was witty, I was charming, I joked, laughed and flirted. I danced. I got up and sang karaoke. I had fun for Raymond. Raymond felt successful. It was very charitable of me. Those cheers, laughs and smiles that people gave me were really being given to Raymond, but I had to empower him by letting him see me accept them on his behalf. The night ended, as all nights do, and I was so devoted to my cause that I didn’t even pester him to thank me for the opportunity. I sent him and Mrs Raymond on their merry way and told them to always remember to look forwards, not backwards, together. To make a new tomorrow, and not to try to re-create yesterday.

I must admit that, even though it was done for Raymond, I did kind of enjoy the night. So much so that I decided to go back there the following night. Raymond and Mrs Raymond were busy, so I went there alone, forced out the funny, adventurous party spirit inside me and tried to have the best night I could. Everyone accused me of being annoying, trying too hard, and being a sicko sleaze… but that’s another story. What we’re talking about here is the importance of moving forward and looking forward to what lies ahead.

Now is where I must ask you if past experiences can ever be revived. Are we destined to spend so much time identifying our former glory that we never get a chance to bask in it? Are you, Diary, under so much pressure to live up to yesterday that neither of us gets a chance to enjoy today? I re-christened you. I allowed you to forgive me. I let you know why you mattered. I embraced the spirit of those 22^oC days.

Why has the spirit not begotten the practicalities? Why are you trying so hard to be a Raymond that you’re forgetting to be more of a Raymond? I’ve done as much as I can, but you must realise that accepting compliments in parallel to accepting responsibility.

You’ve been back for four days. In that time, temperatures have swung from 21^oC to 23^oC. At some times of the day, I’ve even seen them around 20^oC and 24^oC. How much more must I be expected to do?

Why aren’t you thanking me for asking you these questions? I constantly asked questions of my clients and they would thank me with a long-overdue cheque. I asked them if they truly felt thanked for their life’s efforts. I would ensure that they stopped thanking others for long enough to receive thanks themselves. I would ask them if they believed there were opportunities for great fulfilment being at the receiving end of a ‘thank you’. I told them not to bother answering.

Countless times, I let them know about the need to balance life’s extremes: to give as much as they received. So here I must ask you what unresolved issues are preventing you from giving me my due thanks? When are you going to thank me? There are many ways to say thank you, to show that you appreciate someone, that they have your blessing and your gratitude. They way I do this to you is every day is by selflessly letting you go about your duties as a Diary just like you did the day before. I never challenge your right to do this. Embedded within this grace I give you is a beautiful message of thanks. I’m truly sorry if you can’t see this, but you surely can’t expect me to take the blame for your unwillingness to acknowledge my generosity. If you want the thanks to be clearer, try giving some to me. You’ll be amazed at the effect it can have.

I’ll give you the rest of the day to have some quality thinking time, Diary. After you have done this, you, like Raymond, can look ahead to tomorrow. This will be a tomorrow when you are ready to thank me with a 22^oC day immortalised on your pages.

Begrudgingly,

Milton


Dear Diary,

22^oC, but pouring with rain.

What did Mummy mean when she said, “Milton, behave yourselves!”?

Today is not the day I wanted, Diary, and you know it. It’s just like that time I told Raymond that relationships are about giving and receiving each other just the way they are. There are no loopholes, fine print or special additional clauses when it comes to relationships between two people. There are no lawyers who can help you argue that you’ve given the other person his or her desires with conditions. What you have given me is not the calm, peaceful 22^oC day that I wanted to have gracing your pages. It’s a 22^o day with conditions and extra burdens. I don’t know how you can think this is justified. Deep down, there may be a part of you that believes you had all best intentions, but that’s not enough for me.

If I repaired your cover with low-grade sticky tape, how consoled would you be that I had good intentions to fix you? If I wrote short, simple entries in you without letting you display all the depth within me, would you really feel like a complete diary just because I had good intentions to use you? If I filled you with questions that I never made any attempt to answer, would you feel validated simply because I had good intentions to explore issues with you? It just isn’t good enough, Diary. Relationships are about giving and receiving. I sometimes need to see some sort of product of your good intention if I am to be consoled.

You are a fine, fancy diary radiating the entire mystique that comes with being one. One can’t spend one’s entire life operating on mystique alone. You need to follow the rules of the game if you want to get ahead and score. The game is called reality, sweetheart. It’s a force upon us that will reprimand you if you don’t have proof that you are conforming to its expectations.

If reality makes an appearance at your world, it will be a burden and an ominous presence. Just remember that all it wants is for you to justify your existence to it. Somewhere in your own special brand of logic, you always know exactly what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. However, reality’s greatest desire is for you to be a mirror. Reality wants to see the reality in what you are doing. You can try being the ball at the disco with many mirrors that radiate fragments of reality with superficial flash and sparkle. You can try being the twisted, curvy mirrors at the funfair that distorts things out of proportion but gets forgiven for this because it has a feeling of fun. You can be the mirror that makes people afflicted with anorexia believe that they are fat, even though they see their perfectly human frame within it. You can even be the magic mirror that the wicked queen who kidnapped Snow White uses. You can gush with praise when the truth you tell is just what reality wants to hear; you can soften the blow with gentle caution when the truth is not quite what reality hopes to hear. Whatever way you choose, just be a mirror. Just unleash the mirror within.

The trick is to always have something prepared to show reality whenever it pounces. Reality has many forms and many representatives. For you, reality’s representative is me. When reality visits, show it your efforts so you can keep it off your back.

Your own personal conclusions are irrelevant. You can probably explain your behaviour to yourself if you really want to, but I, as reality’s representative, want to see the proof that you are behaving as you should. At this stage, there is none. I can see nothing which explicitly shows me that you are doing your job. I can feel no clarity in my head or lightness in my heart that would come from a proper experience with a diary. When you have that little something ready to show reality’s representative, it may be a pain to always have it ready. Trust me, Diary, it’s less of a pain than when it shows unexpectedly and you have nothing to show it.

Yes, I am in the same position as you. I must have something to prove my worth and to show that my time here is productive. I have two things that do just that. One is the sheets on which I record temperatures for the Bureau of Meteorology. The other is you. I’ve given you a chance to be my evidence. Now you must pay me back by showing that you have evidence of your own, to support your own cause.

Sincerely,

Milton


Dear Diary,

22^oC, calm, but malnourished.

Please excuse the bites I had to take out of your pages.

Starvingly,

Milton

Dear Diary,

Yes, it’s been about a week. Yes, there was some tension last time I wrote on your pages, but before we do anything else, just let me tell you a story.

It was years ago, when I had first started up my practice, that the government was sponsoring clients to come to me, to see them through their twelve-step programs for character development. They had all sat down and talked to me about their concerns, and I gave them detailed information on how to make choices, how to acknowledge the consequences of their actions and how their self-discovery missions can be used to their fullest. Yes, Diary, it sounds long winded. It sounds difficult, but it’s what I was trained to do. It’s the brilliance I was destined to have.

I spoke to each of them individually, and then initiated some group discussions, just like in the movies, with the circle of chairs. The conversations flowed, the ideas were shared, I used lots of big words. I was so proud of myself. Then it became time for the next ‘step’ in their missions. It was time to book them all in to a weekend retreat at the Mountain Spiritualist Centre. What a place it was: the rolling hills, the clean and crisp mountain air, the picturesque waterfalls, the bright stars, the big bold sunsets right before our eyes, the trees and ferns that looked like they had a rightful place on the label for Forest Fresh Pine Cleaner. I knew in my heart that this majestic setting was where each and every one of them would be inspired to take that extra step on their self-discovery journey and realise how fruitful it really is, how their new senses of self where just an arm’s reach away, and how much they needed me to make these discoveries.

I stood there and watched them during the meditation sessions, each one of them relaxing in their own ways, and I knew that they were doing this as a result of my advice on “how to find what works best for you”. The people who had closed their eyes were told to open them and stare at the red spot at the front of the room to focus their contemplation properly. The people swaying from side to side were told to be still and rigid, to give their bodies the right amount of balance. The people who were lying down and spread out… well, this part isn’t important.

Then it came time for each of them to tell their stories. This was where I knew that my expertise was really going to shine. I was all prepared to feel like Mummy did that day she saw me leave for university… when she wasn’t too busy dusting and organising that night’s bridge game. Again, for the sake of client confidentiality, I shall refer to each person as ‘Raymond’:

First there was Raymond, who every two years or so would have his epiphany that it was time to re-discover himself, to find a career that would symbolise his hopes and dreams, that would allow him to set higher goals and see his spirit soar. His Uncle Raymond, who owned the inner-city shoe repair shop in which Raymond had spent ten years working on and off, would always humour him ever-so-snidely, allow him to go off and follow a dream, and then welcome him back about three weeks later whenever the harsh realities of life made him swallow his dreams and return to shoe repairs. Raymond was crushed by the monotony of shoe repairs and the simple-minded vanity of the people who would bring in the expensive shoes with the brand names or insignias that would supposedly be the whole source of their shallow identities. He was even more crushed by the difficulties of following his dreams and the fact that all of his big ideas weren’t feeding him at night, and that his potential employers couldn’t see the wonder that was Raymond. Through talking to me, he was almost ready to develop a plan to work in shoe repairs two days a week, live modestly and spend the rest of his days chasing the almighty dreams. He was sure that this time he could make it, his confidence was soaring, his plans were realistic yet fulfilling and he was ready for life as he knew it to change. I smiled as he told his story and waited for the meditation gurus to heap him with praise and show him how to finally take that one final, brave step. What they ended up saying, which burnt such a hole in my heart that I remembered it word for word, was, “You are suffering from corporate world mentality. You just don’t realise that goals are cancers imposed by the ‘take what you can and then keep reaching for something else’ attitude that pollutes our senses these days. They are limitations which stop us from finding happiness just where we are. There’s a reason why you keep going back to your uncle’s shoe repair place, it’s because that’s where you belong. Be a truly evolved spirit and show how you can be happy just where you are, where you know you should be. No truly enlightened spirit wants to struggle trying to be something else when he knows he can be one of the finest in his craft of shoe repair AND stay in his close, bonding family unit.” It was funny, I always described that attitude as being stuck in a rut, but how could I possibly argue in a place like that?

Then there was Raymond, who had her embroidery kit and paint set stashed away in her cellar. She never had a chance to use them, much to the delight of her violent husband Raymondo who would batter and abuse her as he made it clear to her that she was no good for anything except cooking, cleaning and giving birth. Naturally, the meditation gurus told her that he was right, that putting your heart and soul into maintaining hot dinners and comfortable surroundings for her provider was a true mark of creative passion. Apparently she had to realise that every bruise and scratch on her body was a medal of honour, showing that her husband had such faith in her resilience and her ability to keep doing what she did best. She was told that the true sign of strength within her would be if she manages to be insightful enough to forgive her husband for every one of his necessary shortcomings as many times as she had the privilege of being able to do so. She quickly left the retreat and raced back to her husband’s side. I never saw or heard from her again.

So, don’t you see, Diary? It’s taken me a week of suffering alone to realise that I will never truly be a big man until I find it in my heart to forgive you and give you another chance at being the best diary you can be.

I now realise that I viciously reeked of misunderstanding, and I caused some heartache. I really hope that you will learn from past experiences and will find the ability to admire me for being so bold and honest. Then, when you learn from my example, you will be able to be more honest with me, and make me proud of you. However, you must not use boldness and honesty as a cover for the hurt that you are obviously suffering. When there is a hole in your life, you must try filling it with what rightly belongs there. Trying to pave over it will only make a flimsy cover, and all it will take is one footstep over your heart before it caves in on itself. Unless you learn from your mistakes like I’m giving you the chance to do, that hole will get repeatedly covered with the wrong stuff, the covers will keep falling in and that hole will eventually be filled with everything but what belongs there. Just imagine if one of the people who walks over you happens to be wearing those high heels that Raymond expertly slaved over fixing. How painful would that be? How much would that hurt you? How much did it hurt me? How hard did I find it to believe it when Mummy said, “Oh, Milton darling, I didn’t even see you there, you poor poor thing”?

The sad irony is that the only way that I can start to cure your hurt is by dishing out more of it. In fact, I must give you the greatest pain of all: the truth. Moreover, I must kill an illusion. I must reveal to you that I am only human. Consequently, I have made a mistake.

I know that you see me as the high and mighty, wise and wonderful master of existence. I realise that you are determined to equate me with perfection and insight. I can wholeheartedly understand that you are in awe of my years of experience. What you simply don’t understand is that I’m as new at this as you are. Yes, I was around years before you, but by life as the diary writer only began when your life as the diary did.

You know, it’s the same way that a mother is only truly born when her child is born. Before the actual birth, the woman is alive for the short space of many years. However, she can’t exist as the mother until she has something to mother. Until that child appears in the world, she only has experience as the woman. This is the experience upon which she must draw.

She won’t know everything. She may even make mistakes. It is only now that I can empathise with this situation, having found myself in it with you. That said, I would now even declare forgiveness for my mother… but she’s never done anything wrong.

I love Mummy. Mummy loves me. I love Mummy. Mummy loves me. I love Mummy. Mummy loves me. I have clearly told you this many times over. Why do you persist in making me tell you? After I have treated you to apologies and emotional outpouring, why have you reduced the conversation to this?

WHEN THE BLOODY HELL WILL YOU LEARN TO BEHAVE YOURSELF AND DO AS YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO? This may seem like an irrational outburst, but it’s just the same type that Mummy used to have. I said it before and I’ll say it again, if Mummy did it, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. After all, as I have told you repeatedly, and will tell you now for the last time, I love Mummy. Mummy loves me.

We really need to leave this one alone. Let us consider it ‘resolved’. This is only a minor victory, though. This is a solution to a small problem that occurred when we were trying to solve the bigger one. I am now allowing you to forgive me for the bigger problem, then I can explain the situation.

I analysed the circumstances, and hereby diagnose our brief separation as necessary. In experiencing deprivation of you, I was able to realise how possible it is to rely on your presence. I now see that, despite the faults in our relationship, it provided me with much-needed stability. I can not neglect to let you have the honour of giving me this.

And now, in the week since I discarded you, I’ve recorded temperatures from 12^oC to 37^oC. This unpredictability has been far too erratic to be beneficial. I now see that it didn’t happen because I didn’t let you in to my life. I see that you needed me even more because it happened.

We’ve established that I’m only human. Therefore, you must accept that, like all other humans, I will inevitably develop gripes with the world. When said gripes escalate, I will possess the need to lash out as soon as I discover the slightest resemblance of a justification. It’s another symptom of being human that those closest to us will become the recipients of this lashing out. We subconsciously know that this is because we have such respect for these people’s durability in our lives. I know that it’s a harsh form of compliment, but sometimes they come in the strangest disguises. I can see your requests for me not to tell you these harsh truths, but I have no option but to ignore them. After all, telling people what they don’t want to hear is often exactly the same as telling them what they need to hear. It’s an unfortunate quirk of human mentality that we end up believing that ‘want’ and ‘need’ are diametrically opposed. This is why you think you don’t want to hear it, because you know you need to.

Although they may refuse to believe it, humans are blessed with instinct. This is instinct which they detect and go right on to abuse. The instinct tells them that there are some things in the world which, whether we like it or not, will cause them pain. They misread their instincts’ messages, and decide that the solution is to resist whatever that bringer of pain may be. They ignore the instinct’s other message that, as painful as it may be, they must deal with it. Only by feeling the pain will they resolve it. Just remember that other client of mine who, for the sake of consistency, shall be called Raymond. I told Raymond about the character development that would come out of feeling some pain caused by Raymond’s partner Raymond. I told Raymond to be endowed in gags and handcuffs and to have Raymond whip Raymond and take photos of the whole affair to show me at our next session. I never saw Raymond again, though. I don’t know what became of Raymond. However, as I’m lying in bed at night, on the brink of dozing off to a comatose state, I still sometimes say a few special words for Raymond. God bless Raymond.

Again, you are unleashing your inner Raymond. Take it from an expert, it is much more beneficial for you to deny and repress your Raymondistic tendencies. Like so many others I have seen descend into trouble before you, you are refusing to realise that pain will inevitably be felt at some point, and that you will be a troubled soul if you didn’t access the pain. You let the instinct stay around for long enough to tell you that something will cause you pain, but you kick it out onto the streets like Mummy did to me before you let it tell you that the pain will only grow the longer you resist it.

Of course, Diary, you are not to start using this as an excuse to inflict more pain on me. That’s not what this is all about. I am writing this to benefit you and me. Don’t go using it against me.

My instinct is still intact, so much so that I realise that mere demands may not suffice. Perhaps I should indulge in some bargaining with you. Maybe I should tell you a piece of my own truth. You’ll see that it causes me so much pain that you’ll be satisfied. You may even leave me alone, to wallow in my own pain or to swoon in my own brilliance. The choice is yours, Diary.

My piece of truth goes something like this: I really do have problems with Mummy. I know, it’s hard to believe. I know, you never saw it coming. After all, I strenuously denied it on your other pages. Why did you let me? I tried to deal with it by sweeping it under the rug, but what you really needed to tell me was that I had to deal with it. As soon as I have faced the issues, I should be at liberty to honestly declare that I love Mummy. Maybe even that Mummy loves me. I will need to go on a journey of discovery. A journey that leads me right back to where I started. A journey that will take me right back to one of the first things I ever said to you, that I love Mummy.

The journey will convince me that I deserve to be at the journey’s beginning, but not that I should stay there for life. I know that I need to go on it, because I know that I deserve it. It sounds as though I’ll need to waste a lot of time in order to use my time productively. For goodness’ sake, Diary, is there anything you can’t complicate beyond belief? The idea always seemed so much more logical in all those road movies I was taken to on Saturday afternoons. I have no idea what my particular journey will be. If I do not know it, it probably means I am not meant to. It probably means that my greatest discovery was that I knew it all along. Anyway, Diary, I have been generous enough with my confession, so be nice from now on, OK?

Now that our roles are clear, I gladly welcome you back into my life.

With the deepest gratification you will hear,

Milton

Dear Diary,

Professional ethics ban me from discussing my clients’ stories in too much detail, and I really don’t want to give you too much ammunition for using against me, but there are some things I must explain. I can only explain it using my own experiences, because they are what I know best. My experiences all draw upon hearing other people’s experiences, and I can already hear you implying that I’m just a shattered wash-up who uses other people to validate his own existence. I must wonder why you are so intent on using your position to drag people down rather than build yourself up and stand out in positive ways. However, as I am a considerate person, I shall not ask you questions which you have no way of answering. I trust that you will properly document this noble trait of mine. As I can not breach confidentiality, I shall simply refer to each person as Raymond.

I remember the time when Raymond came in to see me because Raymond had spent so many hours tutoring Raymond in writing an essay on The Joys of Being Raymond. Of course, Raymond was such a good teacher, and Raymond was such a good student, that Raymond and Raymond ended up with joint first place in the essay competition, and in the tie-breaking showdown between Raymond and Raymond, Raymond quoted a number of very Raymond-ish things that Raymond said during Raymond and Raymond’s tutoring session, and Raymond ended up winning the trophy that Raymond believed was rightly Raymond’s. Raymond and Raymond managed to stay as tight as a pair of Raymonds over the following years, but Raymond was always affected by the sight of what Raymond always believed was rightly Raymond’s trophy. Raymond believed that all of Raymond’s tutoring turned Raymond into a bigger Raymond than Raymond ever could have been, and Raymond had a lot of trouble forgiving Raymond for growing beyond Raymond because of Raymond’s help. For the sake of professional discretion, I’ll resist telling you which Raymond needed to forgive which Raymond for becoming which Raymond.

Or there was the time when Raymond, who was so proud of his son Raymond and everything that Raymond had set Raymond up to be. Raymond and Raymond both had their own sorts of grief when Raymond started growing outside of the embracing mould in which Raymond had always tried to keep Raymond, and one day Raymond walked into the kitchen, tried hard to look Raymond in the eye, took a deep breath and said, “Raymond, I’m gay.” Raymond could only wonder where Raymond had gone wrong, and Raymond tried saying “Raymond’s not gay, Raymond just hasn’t found the right girl yet.” Raymond spent the next few weeks trying to convincingly say “Raymond would make a great match with Raymond, or Raymond, or perhaps Raymond.”

Hopefully, you’re starting to get the point. Hopefully you realise how there’s a little bit of Raymond in everyone.

Now that we’re starting to understand each other a little better, perhaps I can now tell you a little story of my own. It was back in high school, it was make or break night for my identity. The school was divided between the masses who made fun of me for being just the way I am, and the people who, without being able to say it out loud, were starting to admire me for being an individual… as long as their friends didn’t hear them say that. It was talent night; the prize was a voucher to the very book shop at which I purchased you all these years later. I decided that, after years of practising at home with my Teach Yourself Ventriloquism book, I would make the most of this secret talent by unleashing it on the school’s stage. I found a dummy at the second hand shop. Yes, I named it Raymond. After three weeks of practising my act, Raymond was able to say all of those things I never could. All those snide remarks I wanted to make at my teachers for not understanding what I was trying to say when they marked my work wrong, Raymond said them effortlessly. All those pick-up lines I wished I could give the girls, Raymond recited them with the balance of charm and humour that I never realised I had. All those insults I wanted to give people, all those jokes I wanted to make in class, Raymond finally gave me a way to unleash them.

Finally, talent night arrived and we were a hit. We gave commentary, we made jokes, we made insults, we psychoanalysed the audience, and we were a hit… or at least Raymond was. I made the act, I wrote the act, I created Raymond, I sat there on stage with him… but when the act finished, the audience could only cheer Raymond’s name. Raymond had betrayed me. He took the moment that I wanted for my own glory. He knew why I gave him life, he knew why I needed him, and he just showed a total lack of honour towards his creator. When it was announced that we won the night, I just stood in the wings and threw Raymond onto the stage so he could collect his own bloody prize. I hear that he knocked the MC fairly badly, but I have no idea what became of him.

Now, Diary, do you see how there’s a lot of Raymond in you?

Well, allow me to share a few details of the last few days:

Day one: 22^oC. Day two: 22^oC. Day three: 22^oC.

Last time, you used a single 22^oC day to degrade me. This time, you’ve used more of them to add monotony to my character description. Perhaps you don’t understand our roles properly. Perhaps you’ll excuse me for not explaining them clearly enough.

I created you to document my experience, so why are you causing me to write about the twisted world inside my head rather than the wonderful new one I’ve found on the island.

I created you to help me grow. So why are you making me dwell on the things I must forget before I move on?

I created you to help me discover the wonderful things about me. So why are you telling the truth instead?

You are here because of me, so where is your appreciation? Where is your subordination? Where is your passion? Where is your effort? How can something possibly turn on its creator in such a way, defying the reasons for its invention. You are my diary, you are not a copy of Frankenstein.

I created you to prove myself right. I wanted to demonstrate the advice I gave my clients. I passionately told them about the value of keeping a diary. I also told them to practise what they preach. I drew upon my own intelligence, and I realised that I ought to keep a diary of my own. Why are you mocking my mind? Why are you proving my advice wrong? Why are you causing me to fear for the clients who chose to follow this advice? Why have you also sought to add fear to my list of characteristics when you are meant to be showing how I am gentle, wise and passionate? Look here, Diary, I don’t have fear. I help other people deal with theirs…

Yeah, other people. Those things that aren’t around anymore. They don’t even exist to me now. What does this now mean? Does it mean anything? Did it ever?

Ironically, my only hope is the greatest hope of all: ultimate success. I can only pray that I’ve been so successful I convincing these people they’re intelligent. Hopefully that would have given them the insight to bypass my other, more shoddy advice. In other words, I can only hope that I’ve built them up so much that… how dare you?!

You can see exactly what I’m saying, can’t you? You’re making me believe that the worth I created, needs to grow beyond me and leave its creator behind. You want to be the spokesdiary for all the Raymonds of the world. You’re making me hope that everything and everyone turns on me the same way that you have. You’re convincing me that the only way I’ll be more successful is by taking more of your crap. You’re trying to convince me that I deserve to cop more of these 22^oC days from you. You just want to turn me into a babbling idiot.

You’re also confusing me. You’re causing me to wonder. What I really need to get straight in my mind and on your pages is: if these people don’t exist anymore, why am I so worried about them? Why can’t I just worry about myself, like I fully deserve to after all these years of worrying about anything but? I seem to remember giving deep, passionate – almost obsessive – advice to people when I was cramming that “start worrying about number one” stuff down their throats. Why can’t I do that now? I don’t remember ever saying that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ was a bad thing. I certainly don’t see you reminding me of a time when I did.

Just look at you, Diary. You sit here radiating this deep and meaningful psychoanalysis, but you can’t even tell the difference between right and wrong. I’m sorry to say this, but I have to be firm. I can’t even worry that it sounds so condescending. All I can do is tell you that your behaviour is unacceptable. If it continues through to tomorrow, my considered professional opinion will be that it is in my best interests for us to amicably terminate our relationship.

With utmost tolerance,

Milton



Dear Diary,

It happened again.

Another 22^oC day.

Bite me.

You’re going back into the dusty box.

Bitterly,

Milton

Dear Diary,

Is Mother Nature an artist or a scientist? Were her creations the result of meticulous attention to formulae, or did they flow from an inspired spirit with an urge to unleash beauty and inspiration upon the world? Her trees were as prominent in Mr Marlow's poetry class as they were in Mrs Reynolds' biology class. Mr Marlow told us all about the way they symbolised hope and freedom. He let us know all about the spiritual fulfilment we could get from hugging them. We talked about a child's tree house being his castle, his escape from the pressures of the world into the loving embrace of nature. Mrs Reynolds explained as suppliers of oxygen, growers of fruit and homes to certain creatures. Not cute and cuddly creatures like Mr Marlow told us about, but creatures with confusing two-word Latin names. Which teacher had the right attitude? Were their theories in conflict? Did they cancel out each other and show that there was no point to anything? Were they in cahoots to prove the worthlessness of her pursuits? Is she an undesired burden whose existence is only prolonged by our social obligations? No, that can’t be right. After all, she is called 'Mother' nature. 'Mother' is a title, a mark of status, a licence for respect. Diary, I'm sure I matter. I'm sure I have status. I'm sure I deserve respect. Tell me I do, Diary. Maybe not today, but as our journey goes on, let me know that I have those things. Let me know that I deserve those things. Let me know that if I have them, Mother Nature has them too. Let me make the right decision by searching for myself in Mother Nature’s surroundings.

Why is she constantly abusing her power? We see it happen everywhere. She rains on picnics and parades. She melts the children's chocolates and ice cream. She burns the very people she draws into celebrating her own sunshine. Any one of her creations must merely appear and the fortune of a moment can be instantly reversed. Is she being poetic? Is she abiding by some kind of mathematical allocation of fortune? Is Mother just being a spiteful cow who deserves to be kicked in the…

No, no, no, that can't be right. After all, I love Mummy. I have no problems with Mummy. I love Mummy so so much. Mummy really loves me. Mummy is proud of me. Please keep reminding me of this.

So, is Mother merely the administrator of many random urges? Is it her duty to arbitrarily issue them without her own passion or interpretation? Does she expect us to just take her crap and suffer? Is she a sadistic educator who is trying to teach us lessons we will only learn the hard way? Is she giving us the gift of freezing, burning, drowning, or being swept away to make us better people by making us much worse people? Does she expect us to draw conclusions from her actions? Should we decide to draw them ourselves? If and when we do, does she deserve to take any credit for them?

Today she showed her ability to be so much at once. Why am I unable to find it in my heart to admire her for this? Why am I such a horrid child of hers that I don’t understand her great talents here? How can you convince me that this inability is not a fault on my part? If you succeed, which you really ought to, how will you then show that my fear of her isn't a fault of hers either? Throughout my career, my brilliant, enviable career, I spent many a session advising people that there are no easy answers. So, as tempting as it may be, we can't explain it all by just saying that Mother is a spiteful cow. It would solve everything, but it would make me worth nothing. I would need Mother more than ever. I love Mummy. I have absolutely no problems with Mummy. Mummy loves me. You have reminded me of this before. You will continue to do so for as long as you bloody well need to. Now, behave yourself, Diary, or you can go to your room.

I appreciate that there is beauty in each and every one of her creations. I have no option but to do so. How many times did I tell my clients to cherish the beauty within everything they see, even if it was the beautiful passion that drove their husbands to beat them nightly? I can not and will not be branded a hypocrite. Sticks and stones might break my bones, but words can not wash off me. Not those nasty, nasty words that the teachers scrawled all over my work. Not with that thick, dripping red ink. Not those big crosses they put on there to say I was wrong. If only they knew how enlightened I really was. If only they could see that I knew that X marked the spot where true treasure was buried in my work. If only they understood that I saw X as a huge kiss of approval for my true brilliance that would one day ensure that I did much better than they did. After all, look at everything I have now. Look at it. I SAID LOOK AT IT, DIARY!

On the other hand, by refusing to take Mother Nature's crap like a passive little weed, I will also be seen to take another piece of my own advice. This will be the piece of advice in which I declared that there’s no beauty in doing things to extremes, that the scales will never be unbeatable as long as they are always swinging and never completely fallen. I can also confirm my theory that there is even less beauty in two simultaneous, but oh so opposite, extremes. Her performance today proved this, even though the proof was far from needed.

Look at that, Diary. Look at the effect you have on me. Look at all the long and babbling waffle you cause me to write when your blank pages take me off in mystical tangents. Can’t you just let me sit down and describe what actually happened? Must you force a too-long preamble every time I write in you? Well, no more of that today. Let me just explain. It went something like this:

At the same time as the sun was shining, as bright and as hot as it gets, the waves were fiercely jumping, crashing and contradicting the beautiful sun. I felt trapped. I felt defeated. My soul was being constricted from all directions, by all possible types of weather. I was so stuck, so painfully humiliated, that it would have been cowardly not to be in touch with these feelings. I express them so verbosely in you, risking my dignity and reputation. Surely that makes me a hero… at least to you.

So many issues with the weather, so much hesitation about checking the thermometer. That unassuming little device would have explained it all with a nice, reliable, unchallengeable number. All the danger and heartache I saw would have been made official by that instrument. I felt that, as long as the number was still lingering in the land of the unknown, there was still hope. However, by my own admission, and by your own documentation, there is a flip-side to every sensation. The hope I wanted to wanted to prolong was firmly embracing the fear I wanted to discard. You see, Diary? Hope and fear are not enemies. They are simply opponents. They want not to defeat the other, they just want their own perspectives to shine. This, dear Diary, is what I was saying about the power of perspective. They both need each other for the battle to truly be fought. This is what I had to teach myself all those years ago when my Saturday mornings watching the pro-wrestling were crushed into futility by the idea that the whole game was staged. This is how I let myself know that the whole time was well spent.

Philosophy and personality quirks could have left me pondering forever, but it was the voice of duty that eventually spoke up. It persuaded me to check the damn thing, and had me there in thirty seconds flat. I had no idea what to expect.

Lo and behold, I checked to find a perfectly calm 22^oC day. At that moment, I knew that everything was really going to be OK.

You know, it's always lovely to know that as severe as surroundings may be, that central voice of reason will always be there. It'll always remind us that the world is much more calm and bearable than we'll let ourselves see. Then I realised that that was exactly what I was. I was that voice for my clients. I made them see how happy and contented they really were, despite the troubles they saw. This is why I really did matter back there. It's also why I'm here. I came to this island to discover just that. The best thing about it all is that I managed to find it all so quickly.

Then I turned around.

Despite it all, the sun and the waves were still their unbearable selves.

And that, my dear, is how horrid this place is. It also shows how futile I really have been. And now, with you recording this story, the bad vibes are destined to be immortalised.

Thanks for nothing,

Milton

Dear Diary,

The boat ride was completed, and the captain waved goodbye as he sailed away. Sure, he might not be smiling as much when he sees the damage that my feet did to the woodwork, or the… well, let’s let him make his own mind up about what it is. I’m empowering him to make his own discoveries, he’s empowering me to realise that it’s his problem, not mine.

I’m not answering to anyone now, Diary. No, really, I’m not. Well OK, smartypants. I do have to answer to my little visitors when they arrive at ‘that time of the month’, and I do have to answer to myself, and I do have to… wait, no more than that. I don’t have to suffer anymore. I don’t have to be a victim of society again. The worst thing society ever did for me was to hail me as a hero. Heroes are forced to live up to that word at every opportunity. See, Diary. See what I was saying about the danger of words? Every call for help is a tug at the hero’s cape. Every piece of praise is a silver bullet aimed at the coward’s heart. There was once this woman called Amelia who came to me for help. She was feeling unfulfilled as a professional woman. With all her business success, she had no idea how to be happy. The business world hailed her as a hero, and it caused her to feel like she was anything but. I told her that she was spending all that time trying to be that nasty four-letter-h-word, and it was stopping her from being herself. She needed to be what God made her to be. She needed to find a man whose grunts and door slams when he came home from work, would be the special husband language that only she would understand. She would know that that really means, “Sweetie, your patience, your endurance, your repressed frustration and your hot meals help me to be the best that I can be”, and she would know in her heart that that made her the best that she could be. Those feminist warriors, trying to be heroes for the oestrogen army, would call her a victim. They would say she was suffering. They would say she failed to hear their message. Her strong resistance would prove just how much of a hero she really was.

What is the opposite of hero, Diary? Villain? Victim? Coward? Loser? Every hero becomes one of them eventually. This is why I can see you trying to accuse me of being all three.

Let’s just remember those days when I was struggling through school, gaining every red mark one could gain on his face or his assignments. Rejected by every girl, every teacher, and especially every girl teacher. Persecuted by schoolyard justice because I was just trying to be me. They made me a victim, which made me a tragic hero, struggling to persevere. Everything was sweet and poetic for me. By day I was a mild-mannered schoolboy, but at night I changed into those lycra tights and became the hero I knew I really was when I was suffering through all of this. Sure, there was the time when Barry McGee was toilet papering my house, and found me wearing those tights… but… well… shut up, Diary! The point is, in my heart I was a hero for my suffering. Everything was sweet, until that walk across the graduation stage. I was finally seen as a hero, and I knew my days as an under-rated hero were over. Then I discovered that the world outside school contained more school. Bridging courses, private colleges, university… there was hanging out at the bar, failing assignments by disagreeing with fundamental ideas, spending the day in the campus bar trying to work up the courage to say hello to the cute girl and going home too despondent to care about my essays. All of that held off the inevitable graduations, but alas, my honours degree, my graduate diploma and my PhD came and went, and I knew I had no option but to spend my life as a permanent hero.

Well, Diary, all that changes now. I’ll never have to worry about being a hero again. I’ll be the hero I was in high school. I’ll never have to be a victim of society again. From now on, I am society. You can never be a victim of yourself, surely. I’m too strong to be a victim of me. I can resist me, because I know how weak I am, and that’s proof of how strong I am. Too strong to care that my Diary is trying to make me sound like I’m contradicting myself.

Anyway, this is it. My new home, my new community, my new life.

I’ve still got the ad with me, and I’ll stick it on your page. I trust you’ll keep it safe for me:

Bureau of Meterology requires independent person to inhabit distant island, recording temperatures on a daily basis. To apply, phone 1800 7427 5269 by 3pm Wednesday.

And now, now... just think, Diary, now that ad is talking about me. All of those words talk about me. I am required. I am independent. I am inhabiting this island. I am its ruler and its workers. Its hero and its villain. Its celebrity and its screaming fan. All of these words are me. Oh how I am empowered now that I can wear these words! I followed the lead and now, these 500 square metres of land are mine to do with as I please. Nobody to compare myself to. Nobody to mock me. Nobody to criticise me. Nobody to comment on my performance. This is glorious day. This is the first day of the rest of my life. This is just what I need. Knowing this means I'll never have to worry about how this crazy mission is going to affect me. That is, of course, unless I forget some time, but I'm sure you'll be right here to remind me.

Anyway, now that this new sense of adventure has been manufactured in my head, I just need to relegate it to my heart. Nothing left to do but celebrate my new freedom. Nothing will confuse me here, nor will it get me down. After all, my duties are simple, numerical, and determined by powers beyond me...

I am happy, aren't I?

Duty calls at the same time as my ability to wax lyrical dissolves.

Yours in island endeavours,

Milton

Dear Diary,

My name's Milton, and I've never felt this way before... or have I? If I'm already feeling so overcome only two hours after pulling the door behind it, it has to be a good omen... or does it? Mummy would be so proud of me... or would she?

Well, you're not giving me any answers... or are you?

Well, I don't know, but we'll work it out as we go along... or will we?

All I know it that it's time to treat myself to a few thoughts of my own. It's time to have my own feelings and forget about everyone else's. I've explained feelings before, I've understood them, I've identified them, but I've never truly felt them. Between you and me, now that I'm finally feeling it, I can't understand it. I can't identify it. I sure as hell can't explain it.

I'm liberating myself. I'm going to be free. I'm giving the feeling a free reign and letting it take over my body. Look here, Diary, it makes perfect sense. Don't blame me if it doesn't make sense to you. I pity you for only having those lowly WORDS to help you make sense of things. I have much more than that. I have greater things because I'm just a greater person. I always was meant for greatness.

The feeling is lurking in my head, and I know it's all set to begin a world tour of my body. It's heavy, it's throbbing, it's painful. However, inside the overwhelming pain is a calm tingle. It's almost nice to feel it, when I can get through the pain that surrounds it. This would feel so good, if it didn't feel so bad. Before, it was a whole lot of individual pressure points, but Sergeant Emotion blew her whistle and they all leaped and scrambled to order. They're now uniting for the common good and becoming one emotion. It would be beautiful, if it weren't so ugly. The pressure points are lined up so well that I'm having real trouble convincing myself they aren't mocking the part in my hair.

My psyche is throwing a grenade towards this army of a feeling. It's blowing its battlehorn and the feeling is starting to march down my body. It's now forming the lump that's lodged in my throat. All I can do is swallow hard and try to force it down. Oh, Diary, am I in control of this feeling, or is the feeling in control of me? Am I feeling it, or is it feeling me? It's a shame you chose a life as a diary; we really could use a relationship counsellor right now.

I'm forcing this feeling's actions, and it's forcing my state of mind. As the feeling and I begin the battle to gain a happy balance, I secretly know that we'll never actually find one. I trust you'll keep that secret, Diary. I trust you'll be with us to share the search. I trust you won't keep protesting how futile the search is. After all, Diary, isn't it more important to seek than to find? Isn't the journey more important than the destination? Wasn't that written in a book somewhere? Well, if it wasn't before, I guess it is now. It's written in you. Thanks for that, Diary. I can see that we're going to get along just fine.

And now, after writing all of that, I forgot to pay attention to my feeling. It's just like when Mr and Mrs Jennings came to me when they wanted to save their marriage. I was just being Mr Jennings. You were being the tool shed in which Mr Jennings was spending more and more of his time. My pen was being his collection of hammers, saws, screwdrivers and the old, broken down train set that he just had to accept wasn't going to work again. The feeling was being Mrs Jennings, feeling ignored and rushing off to follow her own wild pursits. I remember how she felt so out of her depth when she would try to hit the town at night, alone and unsupported. My feeling must be feeling that way now. Despite all the freedom it could have enjoyed, it's simply fallen all the way down to my feet.

Maybe I was too hard on Mr Jennings. Maybe he really did have some merit when he said that he wasn't neglecting Mrs Jennings, he was just doing something else that required his attention. I wasn't ingoring my feelings, I was just thinking.

You know, this is just like that Natasha woman with the pink hair who never came back to see me after her first appointment. All I told her was that she was feeling so much that she forgot to think. My goodness, she was touchy. My goodness, she was crazy. My goodness, she was amazing. What I wouldn't give for another half-hour of gawking at her.

It seems like I neglected my feeling's visit to my stomach and my legs when I was talking to you, Diary. However, I can still feel the aftermath of its visit there. Damn this crazy feeling with its multiple personalities. Back in the old days it would have been carted off for shock treatment and been restrained in a straight jacket. In my belly, it was obviously trying to be a cyclone. In my legs, it was trying to impersonate sandpaper. If only the feeling tried harder to get my attention; I could have told it that it can't be all things to all body parts. I can't blame myself, though. The time has to come where we both admit that the feeling chooses its own punishments.

Now, down in my feet, it wants to tickle and throb. Secretly, I admire it for having the courage to blur the boundaries in ways that I've never been brave enough to, but please Diary, don't get me started on that. After all, this isn't about me. What matters right now is that the relief from escaping the feeling is always equalled by the shock of returning to it. What really matters is that it's sending my feet into overdrive. Poor, defenceless feet. They have no option but to kick and stamp until the feeling ricochets.

And there it goes!

I'm sure I've seen this feeling in other people before. I'm sure this is where it usually rushes its way back up the body and releases itself violently through the hands, intensely through the throat or sadly through the eyes. However, this time, with me, it's being unleashed in a very different way. The feeling is very lucky to have me, with my calm hands and dry eyes. It owes a great debt to my hand and my pen, who are uniting to release the feeling eloquently onto your pages. Yes, I was destined for greatness, and we're all very fortunate that my words are here to vouch for me.

What a feeling? What a feeling!

Is it fear? Is it excitement? Or is it just plain seasickness? Is there really that much of a difference between the three?

Anyway, speaking of 'differences', the only one I've noticed so far is that this time I can't get away with just asking such questions. Now is when I must ask them about myself, find the answers myself, and get paid diddily squat for it. I'm sensing that my spirits are low, but that's why I'm going. Well, that's what I'll keep telling myself. I'll say it as many times as I need to before I believe it. I'm sure it'll seem convincing if it's written in you. After all, you're such a fine diary. How could you not be if you're my diary? Don't make me answer that, at least not yet.

Anyway, we're well and truly on our way. First I made the phone call, then I made arrangements, then I made up my mind. I'm thinking that I may have had things a little out of order here, but who wants order in his life? Order's been plaguing me for as long as I can remember. It's always been there to restrict me, dictate to me, impose itself on me. Man, I miss it so much already. But I miss it so soon. That's the proof I have to get away from it. I have to stop relying on it so much.

Do I understand these scattered thoughts? Will I? Should I? Am I ever going to answer these questions? Are you?

I love Mummy. Mummy loves me. I just thought I should point this out. I realise it has very little to do with the discussion at hand, but Mummy was always changing the subject when I started to talk about something at length. If Mummy did it, there is absolutely nothing wrong with it. After all, I love Mummy. Mummy loves me. Don't you forget it.

Will talk to you tomorrow, when we're there... or will I?,

Milton