bedford « Pete Hindle

November 7, 2011

Maps

I’m getting to the point where a lot of my friends say to me, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life”. I also don’t know what I’m doing, and I recently came to the conclusion that nobody does. Or if somebody does know, they are either very focused or fooling themselves.

In late 2009 and early 2010, I was laid up and spent a lot of time reading. One of the books I read was Nicholson Baker’s “U and I“, about Baker’s relationship with John Updike. In the early section, Baker admits his confusion and jealously about his career compared to his colleagues. It was nice to see somebody as literate and as clever as Baker put into words the way I feel about my career, although the words I might have chosen are “aargh what is my life doing how did they do that I suck aargh”.

When I went to the BCA Gallery in Bedford recently, artist Jo Roberts led a group of artists through a visualisation process where she asks artists to make a map of their career – from the start, to where they want to end. It was a pretty enjoyable way of spending some time with other artists, and I made the map of my career above. I totally forgot to put in where I want to end up, because I don’t know. But I’m fine with that.

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April 6, 2011

The Full Mouth Attempted Conversion

I had just stuffed the last of a Double Decker in my mouth when the young female missionary approached me. I forget what her opening line was, because I was frantically trying to swallow about a square inch of chocolate and nougat so I could say “I’m not really interested.” If you’ve ever tried to eat a Double Decker in a hurry, you’ll know how I felt.

Goopy, mainly.

This might be something they teach in Missionary School – “when their mouths are full, they’re ready for Jesus!” – but I managed to pull out a few facts from her. She stood out from the other missionaries that had accosted me (unsuccessfully) in the streets, because she wasn’t a lantern-jawed white guy. Sister Anne, it turned out, was from Hawaii, was going to be in the UK for 18 months, and got Mondays off.

To be honest, I felt a bit sorry for this young woman, so far away from home and at such a weird time in her life. My early twenties were a mess, and being forced to spend a year and a half (or two years if you were a man) away from my friends and home probably wouldn’t have made it any less messy. But mainly, I felt sorry for her having to spend all that time in Bedford.

May 26, 2010

It’s Not Good to be Back

I lay in bed on Monday night, feeling pretty weird. I’d been back in Newcastle for four days, which is the longest I’d been away from home since I got sick. Unlike before, I’d taken it pretty easy, and restrained my impulse to schedule a dozen meetings for coffee every day. In fact, by most standards, yesterday had been great – I’d seen my girlfriend, went for a walk in the park, hung out with my flatmates, been to a cafe for lunch, and packed in a few other things too. So why was I feeling so weird?

Six months ago, my Dad had driven to Newcastle to pick me up and take me back to my parents house in Biggleswade. I’d just got out of hospital, but I was far from well; I had a mysterious rash that covered my entire body, I was weak, and parts of me were swollen with arthritis. We all thought that these would go away (and I mean everyone, from doctors to parents to friends, right down the line to me) but three weeks later I was so sick I got dragged into hospital again*.

Somewhere around the 7th of December, I woke up on a hospital ward in Bedford and then had a massive rectal bleed. That mysterious rash that I mentioned earlier was the start of my vascular system shutting down, and when it became unable to pump blood around my internal organs, it started draining out the quickest way possible. Luckily, doctors were able to save my life, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to write this now.

I’ve spent the entire year so far recovering from that event. I’m a lot better now, but there’s still some lingering side effects – like fatigue, meaning that I get worn out from doing the simplest things. I’m not strong enough or well enough to live in my flat at the minute, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be well enough for another few months, by which time the lease on my flat will be over.

If I’m not well enough to live in my flat, you can bet I’m not well enough to work. As I was technically still a student when I got sick, I can’t have any welfare from the government – but I’ve obviously still got bills to pay. It looks like the only place I’ll be able to afford to live for a while is my parents house.

So, that night when I was lying in bed, it felt like I was moving out of Newcastle. Usually when you move it’s because you make a choice, and because you want to go somewhere new. This isn’t like that, and my reception on getting off the train at Biggleswade Station (nearly getting into a fight the very moment I stepped off the train) confirmed how I felt: I’m here, but I don’t want to be here.

* I don’t know why, but I always seem to get taken into hospital on a Friday. It’s really annoying – I assume that I’ll be fighting my way through an emergency room full of booze-damaged drunks.

Pete Hindle