The Divine Ms Anna and her Domestic Accessory
I missed the bit about pants. Unfortunately. I’m sure it was very enlightening, though have no idea where the discussion roamed. Thongs? Those bum-cleaving shorts with the seam up the back? The return of the tanga? (If only.)
That’s the beauty of the literary salon, that you are free to explore the most profound philosophical questions of the age, to debate politics, the economy, history, and books, of course. Plus pants.
The book in question was Dennis O’Donnell’s The Locked Ward: Memoirs of a Psychiatric Orderly, a compelling read whose humour and humanity outweighed the horror of the subject. Dennis, who comes from the spooky sounding 'hinterland of West Lothian,' has also written a series of novels about Jack Black, a Bathgate (yes, really) private eye. His rite of passage novel, I Am the Eggman, is set in the swinging sixties— he says he was once a hippy and you can sort of tell from the natty, Jaggeresque trilby he sports on his Facebook page.
Our hostess, the divine Ms Anna, was sporting a disappointingly muted combination of cropped jeans and soft grey shirt, no doubt to avoid comparison with her household appliances. But she surely can't think we failed to notice her planting of a domestic accessory?— her one male guest, former Herald writer Ken Wright, was wearing pink socks the exact shade of that kettle of hers.
After the gazpacho, fresh and tangy on Glasgow's brief attempt at a summer evening, we went through to Ms Anna's salon, where Dennis read from the book. The section, about a trip to the local garage with an assortment of inmates from the locked ward, was both funny and touching, as so much of the book is.
Dennis swore he'd fictionalised the characters by merging characteristics and even changing people's gender, but the pen portraits are so truthful and vivid that I can't help feeling people recognised themselves and were pleased to be included. I once wrote a book (The Cruel Game) about a year on the snooker circuit and found that few minded being lampooned or teased— what people really objected to was being left out.
The Locked Ward raises enormous issues about how we treat the mentally ill, questions about drugs, restraints and above all, compassion. Some in the group, which this time included museum curators, teachers and the unsinkable Maggie Lennon with yet another vivid hair colour, had actually had experience of the locked ward through family and friends, so there was much discussion of the ethics of it all, the black humour of the staff, and the need for commonsense. RD Laing's theories of mental illness being a valid response to the craziness of people around us was condemned by various members of the group, who saw mental illness as just that, illness that (like any other) would need treatment.
I think we were all agreed on one thing, that if we were to end up in the prison of the mind, Dennis O'Donnell would be the person we'd choose to help us through it, though I have to say he occasionally regarded the group with a look of both bemusement and amusement, the sort of look we might have for his collection of eccentric patients. Probably it was the far-ranging nature of the discussion, which was not confined to literature or mental illness.
Plus the pants.