Into Slumber

Posted on 25th October 2026 Exploring places, whether they be woods, moorland, old quarries, derelict buildings or locations which exist only in the imagination, fascinates young and old alike. Most of it is inquisitiveness, but there’s a sense of adventure too, and, to the more inventive at least, an element of escapism. It’s the latter sentiment that made me want to paint my mural , and it at least had a part in the above picture, which I completed in 1987. It was commissioned by a mate of mine, who, along with his girlfriend, had just bought a house. It was in need of extensive renovation before they could even move in, and the lad, Robert (who sadly died of cancer some years ago), asked me to paint an appropriate picture for him. He wanted it to be of a ‘big old house set back among gardens and trees’ and with a drive leading up to it from between a pair of stone gateposts which should bear the name of the house, ‘Shambles’. Rob had been a good friend over the years, and, des...

Originally posted on 25th October 2026 I’m a night person. I like the dark. Or to be more exact, I like the night. It’s quiet and peaceful, especially out in the country. But the dawn is better, because if you want to have the place to yourself, in England at least, this is the only time you’re likely to be able to achieve it. When I was younger, particularly in that period in the late 1970s between leaving Parkside Mental Hospital and being prescribed the diazepam which would allow me to go out socially, I used to go out late at night a lot. It meant that I would be able to enjoy solitude in areas which would later in the day be crowded with walkers and tourists. Furthermore, after sunrise, which in summer could be very early indeed, I would be able to take photographs of what I saw. Sunlight at dawn illuminating the mist over the fields; the view from Mutlow, Chesire, June 1979. Quite apart from the landscapes being unblemished by unnecessary humans, who spoil the view, you di...

Posted on 24th October 2026 As a child I can remember people asking ‘Do you dream in black and white?’ – something which struck me as odd at the time, as I never did, but there were a couple of times later in life when colour and black and white were oddly combined. Many dreams have you in unreal or even impossible situations, but some involve ones which you can’t even rerun properly once you’re awake, as they lie outside the capabilities of your waking imagination. I’m not sure which is the stranger of the two I’ve described below, which are taken from my diary accounts made at the time. Last night I had one of those dreams of being chased. An interesting feature of it was that as I fled through a maze of streets, fires started to break out in the buildings around me, factories and warehouses all going up like torches. But as I ran on I somehow left this ‘real’ area and entered a black and white photograph of a street of terraced houses, all engulfed in flames. It was like a pict...

Posted on 23rd October 2026 When I was a child I, like many people, had dreams of being famous when I grew up. In my junior school years The Beatles were national icons, and the footballer George Best was the hero of Manchester United, so my peers generally aspired after ideals like these. In my case I rather fancied the idea of being an artist, though I am not sure that I had a clear idea of what this meant in terms of a lifestyle. In secondary school others began to get more realistic about their careers, but while I had more of a taste for the sciences than the arts I still held on to the idea of becoming a painter. I had a slightly more concrete vision by now; it generally involved a luxurious house – no languishing in freezing garrets for me – and beautiful girls desperately competing for my attention. It was around this time that I read a short story (whose title and author’s name are now regrettably lost to me) about an artist. He was brilliant and flamboyant – he loved to ...

Posted on 23rd October 2026 I was young and naïve – I admit it. Well, what’s worse is that I wasn’t that young – just naïve. We met at Withington Hospital first, then he suggested it would be better if I saw him at his practice in the city centre. It would be more convenient. Fewer people would see us together. This suited me; I agreed. Money was not mentioned. An appointment was arranged, and off I went. It was a pleasant place; the most obvious thing about it was that I had the waiting room to myself. Normally I’d have expected to wait for about an hour in the company of other persons, inevitably boorish or even embarrassing types with disturbing proclivities I would rather not know about. It was very pleasant to be ushered into his office by his receptionist almost as soon as I arrived. The office looked impressive – and expensive. I think his desk may have been leather-topped. I was given a chair with arms to sit in. I wondered how he could afford to run an opulent place like ...

Posted on 22nd October 2026 This entry is an accompaniment to my satirical That Shrinking Feeling , in which I made my feelings felt about the psychiatric profession, particularly those I encountered in Parkside Mental Hospital. Here is a more serious look at that institution, in which you will see a few of the other, lesser characters; the patients and the nurses. I should first perhaps explain that I was eighteen at the time, by far the youngest there. Most were middle-aged or elderly; I doubt if there was anyone else much under forty. Also there were far more women than men in the admissions ward I was in; almost all the patients were there because they suffered from severe depression. Many of them were failed suicides like me. For the most part the atmosphere reflected the thoughts of the patients; it was a depressing place, and there was little conversation. But there were some characters of interest. There was a man in his late sixties or early seventies who was in because ...

Posted on 19th October 2026 I have a very high opinion of psychiatrists. As a former guest of one of Britain’s fine mental institutions I feel I am qualified to say that. I am always impressed by the way the many members of this fine body manage to sham their way through a salaried career, successfully convincing their employers that they have some sort of idea as to what they are doing. Initially I thought it was my early experiences which had coloured my opinion. Perhaps I had just been unlucky in my first encounter; a Scotsman called Doctor Reid, who was based at Parkside Hospital in the neighbouring town of Macclesfield, but who made visits to the hospital in Congleton, where I lived. Dr Reid combined so many negative elements into one person that I feel he ought to receive some sort of qualification for that alone. It was the way he was able to be offensive with so little apparent effort which impressed me most. One important psychiatric principle at least he had learned: not...

Posted on 18th October 2026 I knew – indeed still do know, though I moved away from the area more than twenty years ago – a couple; I’d known them since long before they got married, and in later years, after they’d settled down, I would occasionally call on them. This wasn’t very often, as the social phobia was beginning to get pretty bad by this stage, but I’d usually manage at least once or twice a year. Their daughter, Fliss, was a very cheerful and friendly child, and I took quite a few photos of her as she grew up. In fact I supplied a fair proportion of the photos in their family album, for Phil and Karen, her parents, rarely used a camera. The trouble was that though she loved having her picture taken, and usually demanded it, she always liked to either pose or pull a big grin, and I always wanted a more natural, relaxed-looking shot. The reason for this was because Karen had asked earlier me to paint a picture of Fliss, copied from a family holiday photo, when she was 1...

Posted on 9th October 2026 A Reliant Regal in its native habitat, grazing off the road surface while keeping a wary eye open for predators. I stood quietly at the bar in the smoke-filled pub, idly running my fingers through my long grey beard as I listened to the conversation around me. A group of business-suited men standing near me were talking about cars; specifically of cars they had owned, boasting about their performance and the prestige they gained from having them. ‘A Ferrari Fellatio,’ said one, leaning back smugly. ‘The version with the triple bypass colon injection. What a car!’ His colleagues were murmuring in smiling appreciation when I leaned over and spoke. ‘My first car was a 1973 Reliant Regal,’ I said in a matter-of-fact voice, just loud enough to be heard, absent-mindedly tapping out my pipe into the nearest man’s beer glass – the result of years of prescription medicine abuse. The men swivelled to look at me in amazement. The landlord too had overheard the re...