THE NATURALISATION

I feel I have done something wrong, which sets me apart from others. I walk through the dream corridors of some vast corporation, looking for an office in which someone will validate my papers. Make me a naturalised citizen. I read the doors carefully. ‘Internal Affairs’. ‘Human Resources’. ‘Nazi Experiments’. I pause at this door and listen carefully. I can hear laughter and the chinking of glasses. I go on. ‘Conflict Avoidance’. ‘Personal Hygiene’. ‘Papers Validation.’ Ah ha! I knock. “Enter.” Inside the room an Admiral sits in an extremely high chair looking down. His Admiral’s Hat seems to reflect the light in some strange way. “The gift of life is a precious gift,” he says. “Do you wash behind the foreskin?” I feel his question is unfair and invasive. “Certainly I wash behind the foreskin! Don’t you?” he eyes me with suspicion. I go and grab the legs of his high chair and shake them violently. “In fact,” I shout, “ I am an absolute stickler for washing behind the foreskin!!!” He has clutched the sides of his chair, his hat almost vibrating with alarm. I stop and turn away in disgust. I look around. The floor is a crudely drawn map of Europe. The walls are covered in strange arcane diagrams. The ceiling is Perspex. I can see Simpson-esque blue sky and white clouds above me! The General’s high chair is painted red. “Papers,” he says. He would appear to have recovered. I take them out and hand them up. He reaches down. Our eyes meet. He takes hold of them. I hold defiantly on too. A tug of war. I suddenly let go. He sways backwards almost falling out of his chair! I smirk. He examines my papers. Iridescent rainbows glinting off his hat, which is very elaborate with 6 distinct tiers! “It says here that you are a slave of passion. Is that the case?” “That’s a damn lie!” I say. “A detestable and defaming calumny of the first water! I am not, nor never have been, a slave of passion, in any way, shape or form!!!” I have gone rather red in the face. I feel a kind of breathless tightening of my chest. “How dare they suggest I am a slave of passion?!” As I hear this coming out of my mouth, I see an image in my mind of a rose, wrapped in barbed wire, held by a monk, who’s bright red habit, appears to be in flames! “PASSION! Don’t make me laugh!” …..

But then I am suddenly overcome by a deep well of repentance. I fall to my knees. “Yes! Yes! Of course I am! When I was a child I tried to keep guinea pigs, but they always died. I can smell the cage again. See the straw that I forgot to change. Their tiny blue snouts.” And then that horrible awful shape, rises up inside me. That great un-screamed scream made of lice, cast iron, Eaton Boating Songs and the frost on the meadow, and of course, nothing at all. “We’re not interested in your record with guinea pigs!” He intones disdainfully. “Only with your ability to fit in. Be one of the boys. Fill in crosswords and generally do your bit. Do you think you can do that?” “Yes!,” I say. “Yes! I can play on your side. I can bat left field. I can bowl a googly. Hit a home run. Do the secret hand shake. Stay within my profit margin. And generally be a good team player. I can! I can!” As I am saying this a voice inside my head is saying, “No. You’ll never play on their side. Bat left field. Bowl a googly. Or any of that crap. No! NO! NO!” But the Archbishop appears mollified. “You can? You’ll agree to insider trading. The death of Hope. And wax onions?” “Yes! Yes! Wax trading. Hopeless onions, anything!” “Very well then.” He reaches inside his voluminous pocket, for his stamp of approval. He takes it out. It is an unwieldy cumbersome object, imbued with the ‘….’ Of ages, and the ‘….’ Of eons. “Ink!” I see an ink bowl in the corner of the room. I get it. Left it up. He dips. “Stamp pole!” I see a stamp pole lying against the opposite wall. It has a flat surface attached to one end. I lift it up. He puts the papers against it. With great difficulty he stamps. I put down the pole. He carefully hands the stamped papers down. I take them. It is like Joseph of Arimathea being given the Holy Graal! Somewhat stunned, I turn to leave. “Wait!! Before you go,” says the Colonel, “Remember this.” “Yes?”

He struggles to remember. Fails. “Oh nothing.” I leave. In the dream corridor, once more, of the vast corporation, I float along on clouds of gossamer clutching, my papers!!! Stamped and approved by the Admiral/General/Archbishop/Colonel, himself! Me. A fully naturalised citizen. I hear voices in a room. I put my ear against the door and listen. Inside I can her someone say. “Excuse me, is this the right room for an argument?”