Dear ______,
Do you recall me mentioning Dr Jones, the orthodontic psychiatrist and his bronchitic familiar, Miss Ivy Jones, who treated her patients from a back room in Shepherd's Bush?
It was she who fixed me up with a course at the Church of Self Revelation. The whole episode ended at Knightsbridge Crown Court. It all started from the moment I first visited the Church.
I don't know if you are familiar with Old Court Place, off Kensington Church Street? Well that's where the meetings of the Church of Self Revelation were held. When I first went, there were some twenty people in a large downstairs room. You could identify immediately the regular members because they were all talking to the three or four novitiates like me.
As soon as I entered, two of them came at me. One of them, a whey-faced character with halitosis, pinned me to the wall. "Hello. My name's Sydney," he breathed. He told me that this afternoon was a group session where everyone became purged of guilt by describing their sins and shortcomings. He waved some papers at me. "I've been rehearsing all weekend," he boasted. "You just get an earful of this lot!"
Just then, I was called forward by the Chief Promulgator, a polished ball of lard in a blue suit. He introduced me to the group, ending by saying: "This man needs immediate assistance! There's a mountain of filth weighing him down! Show him how to lighten his load! Can you do that? Help me! Help me to help him!"
I tried to explain that there had been a serious error. I had originally contacted Dr Jones about a purely dental matter. I was not in need of psychiatric help. It was too late. The Promulgator had called forward Sydney, who even now was launching into a noisy recitation of his past sins and present yearnings.
I looked about me. All were listening with rapt attention to Sydney's words. I noticed Dorothy, a plump young matron with the face of a madonna. Her eyes were glistening with excited empathy as she listened. At intervals her mouth twitched as she whispered sympathetic words of encouragement.
As Sydney's self-exposure continued, I realised that he had invented his own sins using a mixture of the works of Krafft-Ebing and the Police Gazette.
I started to intervene, but was interrupted by an outbreak of hysterical applause from the others. They crowded about him. Dorothy was plucking his sleeve imploringly like a devoted acolyte. I moved to her side. "Have you ever heard such a recital?" I asked her. "Sydney's certainly a Master of Self-Disclosure?" I asked if she'd care to go for a drink afterwards, but she replied quietly but firmly that she and Sydney were going for a joint dental session later. She blushed as she turned away.
Overnight, I worked hard at my script, introducing references to necrophilia in order to spice it all up. I was certain I would outshine Sydney. Dorothy would be proud of me.
The next Tuesday was hot and humid. Not only the windows but also the doors were left open to catch a breath of wind. As others uttered their confessions I began to feel nervous. I looked at Dorothy. She regarded me with the kind of expectant curiosity appropriate to the initial inspection of a golden goose.
The afternoon droned on. In the heat, some of the congregation slept during the insipid confessions. It was now my turn. I rose to the challenge. "Try not to listen!" I roared. "But it is my duty to speak and you may listen if and only if you have the courage and compassion! Let us take the case of little Messalina . . ." We took the case of little Messalina, and Peach, and Salome, and the rest.
As I declaimed a life of steaming, bubbling sin and debauchery, I had my audience in rapt attention. I saw that Dorothy had the tell-tale signs: the shining eyes; the loose, quivering lip; the twisted handkerchief . . . the lot. Then I saw Sydney – his face frustrated with fury. (I'm not sure that's possible, but you get my drift?) Deliberately, I raised my voice and addressed just him. My confession assumed a bardic dimension as I flung my sins at him.
Suddenly, Sydney was on his feet shouting in the ear of the Promulgator. The latter nodded, rose to his feet and stood between us. We were both waved down to silence.
The Promulgator announced portentously: "The accusation is that you have been stealing Sydney's sins. There are few crimes worse than that. What have you to say for yourself?"
I knew I had invented the sins myself, and all to impress Dorothy. I decided to turn the tables on Sydney. "If I've stolen his sins then he'll know how this one turns out." With that, I launched into a particularly awful tale of moral turpitude. Sydney would not let me finish. He yelled back his own version of the diabolic saga. I riposted at equal decibels. Soon, we were exchanging abuse in equal measure.
Our querulous confession was brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of a couple of policemen, with others outside. One of them told us that there had been numerous complaints about the indecent language which neighbours and visitors were forced to endure through the open windows and doors. And what strange rites and filthy practices were we up to? At that, Dorothy game him an ambiguous glance of honeyed hauteur, which he ignored.
We were all told to give our names and addresses and be prepared to attend court, if called. The Chief Promulgator left with the police to discuss his charge of keeping a disorderly house.
There was now a modest sense of control among the rest of the group. Having shut all windows and doors, we spoke in whispers. It was clear that the temptation of a public gathering would be too much for the Church members. They sat about orchestrating the format and sequence of their court appearances. Was there no end to their appetite for unseemly spectacle? I decide to leave. I had three more visits to make.
Dr Jones pretended he did not know about Ivy Brown and the Church of Self Revelation. He simply offered to count my teeth. Miss Ivy Brown's office was closed and there was closed and there was a policeman at the door. However, the tattoo artist next door gave me her new address in Paddington.
My charge was reduced to one of disturbing the peace. I attended the Magistrate's Court. There, I was bound over but required to undertake a psychiatric assessment, which they were pleased to call a "medical examination". I was directed to visit a clinic in Park Royal. I phoned for my appointment. Guess who answered as receptionist? None other than IVY BROWN!!
I'll let you know what happens when I visit the clinic at the end of August.
Conrad
