What the Monkey's Thinking

Not the described picture, but a similar one

The following was written some years ago but not uploaded as the picture we used for this writing exercise was taken down from the walls of the cafe. Writers Connect has since folded, but another group runs in the same venue.

Writers Connect are held fortnightly in Nexus Art Cafe in the Northern Quarter. The café's walls are adorned with painintgs and craftwork, one of which is a large, elaborate oil piece of a monkey. We used this as a prompt.

Fluffy Oakes, zoological consultant extraordinaire, sits facing the glass of the monkey enclosure with his steel clipboard and pen poised.

Most of the marmosets are asleep, but one- the zoo named him Max- is engaged in a stare-off. The room is very quiet. Fluffy writes, 'Attentive.'

Max peers over the glass at Fluffy's clipboard, chin raised, like he's trying to look at what he's written.

It started at the turn of the century in the States- zookeepers had managed to teach animals to tap objects based on verbal instructions for rewards. Oldham Zoo were intent on taking it a step further.

The marmoset pressed his hands against the glass.

“Lie Down,” Fluffy instructed.

Max shrugged, or so it seemed.

Fluffy held up a bag of peanuts. “Lie. Down.”

Max dropped to his hips, propping his head up on his elbow, human-like.

Fluffy passed the peanut through the sliding drawer and Max devoured it.

It was time to move things on. Fluffy pressed his lips together, as Max watched. He made a “pah” sound. He held up another peanut. “Pah.”

Eventually, Max would copy, and language would follow.

Psychology Saturdays

The stunning Vermillion #Manchester #restaurant

A post shared by Matt Tuckey (@matttuckey) on Apr 19, 2017 at 4:58am PDT

My mum sometimes asks me, “Why do you like violent films?” My colleagues ask me, “How can you remember massive film quotes when you can't remember our names?” My drinking friends ask me, “Why aren't you going to talk to those girls at the bar?”

There's a pretty simple answer to each of these. It's “I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. I just see them.”

Psychology affects all of us, even if we don't realise. The bar hooligan trying to prove himself understands the psychology of intimidation- showing you believe you can fight will help you to do so, not that I recommend you do. The salesman hassling you on Market St believes you'll buy from him, and if you don't, someone else will. Without that belief, he might as well resign. Even bringing 'bags for life' to Tesco and checking your pre-written shopping list as you go around, handing your Clubcard over to the cashier at the end of your trip is a schema, a compilation of tasks that you have learned to do as one. Psychology underpins every aspect of our lives.

I've spent a lot of time working with people who have a psychology background. My memory difficulties are ever-present and will be with me 'til I die. I've learned, through psychology sessions with the NHS and with meetings with occasional blog contributor Fluffy Oakes, to get around them. But I've also learned about the field of psychology and how it can help more than just myself.

I was talking to my parents last Sunday night about blogging. They were suggesting that, as I've dealt with the difficulties I've had for so long and have developed so many skills to deal with them, that I'm in an advantageous position to tell people about it. This could be, they suggest, a niche that I should cover on the blog. I think I've resisted this for so long because receiving this treatment is hard work- talking about your biggest weaknesses is exhausting and sometimes humiliating, but must be done to make improvements. I wasn't ready to discuss them publicly until recently, and even now I'll cherry pick the information I want to share. (Obviously, dealing with the NHS is a private matter.)

Hence, I'm starting Psychology Saturdays, a weekly post featuring any psychology-related information I find interesting- links to blogs, news articles, public events or campaigns, advice on how to handle your GP, and quite a lot on memory difficulties and depression, and how to improve your situation if you deal with them. I'm nearly 35. I've had memory difficulties my whole life due to a head injury at birth, and have had depression since secondary school. I've learned a lot, but there's a lot more I want to learn. I'll share what I can, a week at a time, here on the blog.

Does Reading Cure Insomnia?

Slip into silent slumber

sail on a silver mist

slowly but surely your senses will cease to resist

-Kaa, The Jungle Book

Due to a ridiculous bout of insomnia, I went to see Fluffy Oakes in hope of further advice. I’ve now been prescribed a course of Zopiclone, a hard, knockout drug. I’ve been warned- don’t take it unless you absolutely need to. Further advice- no computer 2 hours before bed. The glare of the screen can delay sleep.

As a gym and blogging addict, this is a slight conundrum. I get out of work at 5, hit the gym for 45 minutes straight from work, and head home. By the time I get home it’s usually 7, meaning I will now get 2 hours to cook and eat tea and write before the 2-hour stop-gap begins. I go to bed at 11 normally, but this will have to change to save my sanity.

If I go to bed at 9, I can give myself a chance to read. According to Fluffy, reading from a book, lit by a lamp, can steady the mind and allow it to prepare for the act of sleep. My “normal” sleeping pattern (if we can call it that) allowed me to drift off at 11pm. If I aim to get back to this, it means a possible 2 hours of reading before there’s the slightest chance I’ll fall asleep. Or, it might come early in one massive lump and I could be sleeping for 12 hours WITHOUT the aid of Zopiclone. If this technique DOESN’T work, then it’s pill time again.

Essentially, if I'm IN bed, there'll be less chance of me getting up and going to the computer, thus keeping myself awake.

So. There’s another monthly challenge here. Lots of early nights. No alcohol (in accordance with the instructions on the pills). Lots of reading. Along with a plentiful supply of book reviews, expect to find out if any of this really works right here on the blog. Either way, I MUST sleep.

The Fluffy Dieters

I flew by Oldham Zoo today to update Zoological psychological therapist and general all-round life-fixer Fluffy Oakes. The last time I met with him, he gave me a few suggestions for some challenges I was dealing with in life. Well, I got my arse in gear and gave them all a shot.

And whilst lovebird Terence did what can only be described as inverted chin-ups from his perch (using his feet; picture it if you can), I updated Fluffy on my current state of affairs.

I pulled out Delia Smith's How To Cook, the book he'd suggested, and mentioned that the first recipe resulted in what I called a “curry-tastrophe”. 

He seemed surprised that the book was so hard to use, and that I'd struggled to find the ingredients. “Delia's quite a good one to start with,” he'd said, bemused. “You could always go to Waterstones and flip through a few books to see what takes your fancy. But if I can make a suggestion...”

From his own non-fiction bookshelf, betwixt arms guide Jane's Guns and photo-centric avian textbook Birds in Focus, he pulls The Hairy Dieters.

As Terence continued working out, his grunts- heard from a cross the room- became more strained and vocal. As Fluffy and I talk, we need to raise our voices until we're shouting at each other.

The book focusses on healthy food, which I'm keen to stick to. It's simpler, the text is broken down into smaller blocks, the ingredients look reasonably attainable and- more to the point- the dishes look like the kinds of things I'd enjoy eating. Plenty of meat. Not too many obscure ingredients. I live near one of the biggest Tescos in the country, but they still fail to stock some of the bizarre food stuffs that recipe books occasionally come up with. The Hairy Dieters seem to go for their simple, mainstream edibles.

So I promised I'd have a go.

As well as this book, Fluffy suggested, I could always go into Waterstones and flip through the books to see which looks easiest or has the tastiest recipes.

Next, I showed him the new Sony Xperia P I'd bought a contract for. I was hoping to stay at the price range I'd been in with my previous contract. Unfortunately, you just can't get phones for £20 a month and unlimited internet, unless you go on GiffGaff, which I've heard enough bad press for. Also, if you find anything like that, the phone is likely to have a shitty camera. I explained to Fluffy that when you have memory difficulties, a camera can be a huge benefit in terms of memory promts. If the pictures are really high-quality, you can zoom in to check details if needs be.

Terence gave one more climactic yell as he completed his final chinup, then swoops to the floor of his enclosure, exhaustedly mumbling something about a new personal best. Shunning the fatball strung up in his cage, he gorges on sunflower seeds and a small bowl of protein shake powder before falling asleep.

I'm getting somewhere here. The problems I've dealt with since moving out- the bills, the friendship circles I've struggled to make and keep, the cooking and healthy eating, they've all diminished and in their place is a world of opportunities. It's partly thanks to Fluffy for pointing me in the right direction, but it's mostly my own graft that got me ontop of this situation.

Fluffy's Way

Terence the Lovebird lies in Fluffy Oakes’s lap, nuzzling into his thigh. The tiny but vibrant bird is overwhelmed with life in general.

I’m a little more optimistic. “I’ve asked you a lot about yourself over the last few years,” I tell Fluffy. “I’d like to ask you about me, if I may. I think you could point me in the right direction.”

“We’re nothing but animals,” Fluffy points out, “as The Bloodhound Gang once divulged.”

“Indeed.”

Terence rolls his eyes.

“I moved out two years ago now,” I say, “and I’ve had to battle like a motherfucker to get the kind of direction and help that I needed- but you’ve given me most of that help along the way. There’s just a few minor things I’d still like to ask you about.”

“Anything, man.” His head tilts. An eyebrow raises. “Anything.”

I shift. “Okaaay…” I flip my notebook. “I’ve been using this Keda Black cookbook and-“

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he interrupts. “Too complicated. I admire your bravery for ploughing into it, but I can sense you’re losing your enthusiasm for cooking. I would, if I’d been ploughing through Keda.” He glances to Terence, who’s oblivious. “So to speak.”

“What then?”

“Do Delia Smith first.” He pulls out How To Cook Volume 1, flipping it over in his hands so the cover faces me. “Much simpler. It’s for everyone. Keda generally didn’t go into enough detail at each step, I gather from your posts. And the meals were a little unusual. I mean, why put the mind-bending Bechmel sauce as the first recipe? Weird. And why leave the simplicity of scrambled eggs until page 14, in comparison? Lets see a few blog posts based on Delia. It’ll be good because- as I’m sure you’ve noticed- there isn’t much info on the net about people with memory difficulties learning to cook. You’re carving that niche. But I would say, make it obvious in each post that the memory issue is something that is a factor when YOU cook, and how it makes your cooking and learning experience different to everyone else.”

“Can do. You know, I kind of slacked off with cooking as so many of the meals were so complicated, and I felt robbed of time by performing the recipes. It took me maybe an hour or two to cook a meal that I’d devour in ten minutes flat. I’m hoping Delia won’t rape me in that way, you know?”

Fluffy bites a sunflower seed, shelling it, and feeds the rest to Terence, who continues to stare into space.

“You’re a competent enough chef,” says Fluffy. “There’s little chance of Delia raping you in the near future.” He wipes Terence’s beak. “Sorry if that disappoints you, though.” He winks.

“Yes. Well.” I shuffle notes. “Oh. I wanted to ask about phones. My contract’s coming to an end, and I wanted to ask someone who knows about memory as to which phone or contract would be best. My current phone crashes all of the time, which is why I’m not going to GiffGaff- I need an actual handset with more memory and a better camera.”

“Well, I don’t have, y’know, more knowledge about phones in particular, but I know that newer phones don’t crash as much. Now- when do you use your phone mostly?”

“All times. Internet during the day, an occasional call in the evening, texts at all times, although not as much now I’ve got Facebook Mobile.”

“No landline at home?”

“No.”

“Do you Skype?”

“No, but I probably should.”

“You should. Skype to Skype calls are free.”

“Facebook Webcams do a similar thing too.”

“Facebook cams are ran with Skype software anyway. So, if you used those two instead of your phone, whenever possible, you’d hardly need any call time at all, which will reduce your bill exponentially. But here’s what I’d do- Three are going to phone you to get you to renew your contract, so take the hard approach with them. Tell them you’re thinking of going to GiffGaff and they’ll start throwing deals at you. Keep it at £20 a month. Tell them you want unlimited internet. There are places doing that now, so Three should if they want to keep your custom. List out what you want. Tell them if you don’t get that, you’re going to GiffGaff. They’ll come up with something. They’ll have to.”

Terence airs his wings and delicately starts to climb the arm of Fluffy’s tweed jacket.

“Erm… The only other thing… I wanna mention…” I scratch the side of my head with a pen. Something twists in my stomach.

Terence is now standing on fluffy's shoulder- not muzzling his ear or curling into himself- he's standing tall, chest out and chin high, like a parrot should. He's waiting for me to continue.

They both are.

Give your mind power and your body strength.

Fluffy Oakes is a trained killer. An expert in MMA, he is at the peak of his physical fitness and assures me he is “a fearless bastard.” Who better to ask for training advice than this Manchester martial arts legend? Today, Power is a State of Mind hands over to Fluffy. We're giving him a month to whip us into shape.

*

There is physical strength, and there is mental strength. Mental strength is required if you work in a difficult job, like social work or nursing. Jobs such as these require emotional stability- working with people who have injuries, whether physical or mental, will test you. But it will also build you. To get through a day without letting sympathy distract you from the task at hand is something that only a few are suited to, but people can become mentally and emotionally tough through these testing experiences.

Physical strength is much easier to develop, achieved usually through the repetitive action of lifting weights. The more times you lift, the more weight you can lift. But there will be times when you will get stuck. No matter how many times you do a certain movement, it seems, you just can't get over it. You'll reach a plateau, and it will feel like trying to climb over a wall that's just a tad too high for your fingers to reach.

So what do you do if you're stuck on a particular movement? My advice will buck the trend- leave it.

If you hit a plateau, don't try the weight again for a few weeks. Bear with me here. It helps if you bring a pocket notebook to the gym, along with a pen. Put the name of each movement on its own sheet, at the top. Put the weight you've lifted on the left, and the date you lifted it on the right. Each time you make a new personal best, mark it on underneath in a column. This is your achievement. No matter how small you think the weight is- no matter how many meathead units are in the gym alongside you, lifting three times as much- feel good about it. This is your personal best. If you work out properly and regularly, and you eat and sleep well, it can only go up from here.

Do this with as many movements as you like. Watch your records break and your body improve. If you're reaching plateaus already, it's fair to say you're a regular gym goer and you know what you can and can't do. Make a note of the date of the attempt and skip that movement. Here's why.

Each time you attempt to beat a personal best and you fail, you start a mental conversation with your “inner critic.” 

Everybody has their own inner critic. It's a part of your psyche that tells you- No. You can't do that.

On that weight movement at that time, your inner parent speaks to you. “Stop trying to lift that weight,” the parent says. “You are a scrawny, stupid weakling and the whole gym is watching you struggle. Give up.”

Your inner parent is an arse, but you must still listen. If you return to that weight movement for the next five days, you could fail to improve every time. Meanwhile, you could have been improving on other exercises you perform in your gym routine. In a 45-minute gym session, you aren't going to stick to one machine, unless you want a bizarrely disproportioned body, or you want to injure yourself. So skip it, and move on to a machine you feel you can improve on. A new personal best on one machine could well allow for an improvement on a machine that uses some of the same muscle set. Or, throughout training, your cardio may improve through the "shock" your body gets from the break of routine- not just from the cardio machines.

Here's what's important- whenever you exercise, you release endorphins into your bloodstream. This makes you feel good. Couple this with the feeling you get when you know you've improved yourself, and you'll feel extra good.

I recently ran through around half of the exercises I practice, one after the other, in a series of 45 minute sessions. It took a full month. So I'm in no danger of running out of exercises even if I hit loads of plateaus.

The only machine you should be going back to, regardless of how many times you fail to improve on it, is the cross trainer. This machine is perfect for warming up all the muscles in your body and great for improving cardio. Do a ten minute blast of this right at the start of your session. To improve on it, you might find doing it twice per session for a week or so will yield sudden improvements.

Matt Tuckey claims he's going to do this for a month. He'd better do, otherwise I'll beat his bitch ass. And he knows it. I will be more lenient on you, but you can do just as well as him. Now switch off your computer... and go to the gym.

Wrestling with Fluffy Oakes

I haven't grappled in ages due to moving out and not having the money, but right now I'm on the mats in Fluffy Oakes' apartment- and he's kicking my arse while Rob Dougan's “One and the Same” provides some acoustic contrast. 
 

Fluffy shoots in on me, taking my legs and body-slamming me to the floor.

“You could have defended that,” he says. “You know how to sprawl. I've seen you do it.”

“Yep,” I wheeze, but I manage to lock my legs around his back.

“The reason you don't do well in MMA is because you don't think you'll do well. You expect to get beat.” He pins my biceps to the mat.

Isn't it the other way around? I think. It keeps happening, so I expect it to. Like a lot of things.

I try to swim my arms inside to break his grip, but I can't reach in enough. I try to grip on to his upper arms and work my legs up his back.

“And here's the funny thing,” he says. “You run a blog called 'Power is a State of Mind.'”

As my ankles climb up his back he responds by posturing up, sticking his chest right out. My legs won't cling on.

“People are gonna be searching for that kind of strong-mentality, backbone-building shit” he says. “When they reach your site, is that what they're going to find?”

“There are a couple of speculative pieces on it.” I reach up to try to pull his head down. A simple shove puts my back on the mat again.

“But it's mostly Tesco Value goods, Mark Kermode and stuff you can do with Twitter,” he says.

I climb my ankles a second time. There's a space between my thighs, though, and he swims his arms in and throws my legs to one side. He drops his chest on my stomach, side on, pinning my far arm with a hand.

“I'll tell you what I think,” he says, fishing around at my arms, looking for an opportunity to beat me up some more. “I think you chose the name because you saw how you wanted to see yourself, and how you wanted others to see you. You want a powerful state of mind, but you haven't got one.”

I really want to start throwing shots into his ribs at this point, as he's leaving them open. But then, I'm leaving my head open. He'd throw back harder. This is only grappling. Pride stings when you know you're not going to win.

“You need to stop beating yourself up over things, for a start,” Fluffy says.

There's something really ironic about that, but I can't put my finger on it.

“I can help you sort that out,” he says. “You'll never doubt yourself again. Every problem you've had with work, with women, with your memory, I can sweep it away.”

“Sounds great,” I say, bored, “but I've heard it a million times from a load of different people.” I pull an elbow forward and try to hook onto one of his legs with my ankle.

“Have any of them read your blog?”

“Some of them,” I say. He knows what I'm trying to do with my body. He's letting me turn into him. I know he's pre-empted my actions, but I can't think what I'm doing wrong. I can't think what his counter is, and hence what my counter is.

“I've noticed you've put up some guest posts. Why don't you let me do something? I'll teach you about a powerful mentality, but I'll teach it to the world as well. It'll go well on the blog. You're a good writer but I don't think you're the guy to advise people on their state of mind.”

This hurts more than any move he could pull on me. But he's right.

“Your content will match people's search results. People will type in, like, 'state of mind', and 'strong mind' or whatever, they'll find your blog and they'll actually find what they're looking for. I'm not saying what you've done isn't good; it is, but it largely doesn't relate to what people are searching for. 'Til I get on it, that is. Whaddaya say?”

I thread an arm under his armpit and follow through with my torso. I manage to flip out from under him- I'm an annoyingly thin and wriggly grappler. I get caught in holds a lot, but I'm difficult to keep still. He loses his grip and I stand up. He stands level to me, quickly.

“Yeah, surprise me,” I say, and I shoot for his legs. I lunge out with my arms too much, though, like I always fucking do, and lean my body forward. He catches hold of my neck with one arm and chokes me out.

Aftermath

I feel more comfortable with gorillas than people. I can anticipate what a gorilla's going to do, and they're purely motivated.
Dian Fossey, US zoologist (yes, the one Sigourney Weaver portrayed.)

Edgar the Silverback Gorilla looks at the padded floor of his cell. He twiddles his thumbs. The door to the enclosure opens with a clang, like he’s in a prison movie. He hears it distant, from the outside of the cell. The cushioning covering his walls muffles the sound.

Here comes the proverbial bumming.

Fluffy Oakes steps in front of the glass in a white boiler suit, carrying a satchel over his shoulder. He opens a flat-pack chair, propped up against the wall. He sits down. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

“Edgar,” Fluffy says. “We’ve got a serious problem. The girl’s in a coma.”

“She’s a con-artist,” says the gorilla. “And I’m 180 kilos. She took a risk.”

“She did, and so did you when you left the zoo.”

Edgar nods, browbeaten.

“We’re in consultation about what’s going to happen. The bar won’t talk to the press. I won’t either. I won’t even tell my biographer.”

“That Tuckey guy? You won’t tell him this?”

“He won’t know.” Fluffy takes the satchel off and takes out a laptop. He loads it up and opens a website.

“Look,” says Fluffy. “Point 5.20 on page 8. They’re not even supposed to touch each other. It happens at strip clubs nationwide, but it’s not legal. It’s lewd conduct.”

“So we’re basically, er, sorta holding each other hostage. That’s not the phrase, but…”

“I know what you mean,” says Fluffy. “Yes. If word gets out either way, we'll just throw this back at them. They cast the first stone. I'll take on this club, I'm not afraid. But if it goes public then the zoo and the club are both up shit creek.”

“What about when the stripper wakes up?”

“If the stripper wakes up. I don’t know.”

“I won’t stand for people ripping me off, Fluffy,” Edgar says.

“Lower your voice.”

The ape enclosure is closed to the public today, but the walkway isn’t far away.

“I will never tolerate it,” barks Edgar. “Fuck them. Terence might, but he’s a mug.”

Fluffy looks up from the laptop. “They did it to Terence too?”

Edgar closes his eyes. When am I going to stop running my mouth?

He doesn’t have to nod.

“I take it he paid up?”

Edgar thinks of the town, the breeze, the expanse of water, the cold metal railings in his hands. “You could say that, yeah.”

“Why a strip club, Edgar? Of all the places. Newcastle is incredible. It’s a beautiful city. There’s so much you could have done. That’s where you go?"

“Blame Jacob. His idea.”

“You could have learned so much more if you’d done the standard sightseeing things…”

“I thought the trip was pretty educational, to be honest, Fluffy. Architecture doesn’t talk back to you. It doesn’t test your, like, integrity and shit. What would I have learned from a giant rusting angel model?”

It's Fluffy's turn to examine the floor.

“What now?” asks Edgar.

“The day release scheme is on hold. English Language lessons will continue.” Fluffy closes the laptop. “I want to ask you a question, Edgar.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you like humans?”

A pause.

Edgar sighs. He rests his hand on a lump of dismembered wood. “Some of them are okay, I suppose.” He flicks a piece of straw off his arm. “Some just want to push their weight around. Even right here,” he says, prodding the floor with a thick stubby finger, “at visiting times, the kids shove in front of each other. You see the short ones get pushed to the back so the taller kids get a better view. That’s not fair. Nobody intervenes. I’d rather, y’know, go too far than not go there at all.”

He necks a paracetamol.

“The dancers up there…” Edgar continues, “they try to trick people out of their money. Because they do a job that’s sorta controversial or whatever, they think people won’t say shit. Like guys don’t want people to know they’ve been to a strip club.”

Fluffy sighs. “Not my area of expertise, Edgar. I’m going to put the day release scheme on hold. I want you all to be ready. Clearly, you in particular, you’re not. We could do some exercises to improve your behaviour. You could increase your vocabulary as well.”

Edgar knuckles his way forward to the glass. “You’ve taught me enough talking.” His nostrils steam up the window. “Think of the girl, Fluffy. Don’t you think you’d better teach me when not to talk?”

“Believe me, Edgar. “That’s a much harder lesson to learn.”

Terence Hits Newcastle: Part 6

Night. Cold. A river front- The Tyne, Terence guesses. Reflected in the water: a shimmering, metallic blob- a large, pupae-shaped shiny building. To the left- a sturdy but shoddy bridge linking the riversides. New rubs shoulders with old.

Terence thinks his problems are similarly close.

The breeze bounces straight off the river and into Terence's tiny eyes.

I've gotta salvage some dignity from this excursion, Terence thinks. I want to go back feeling like I've done something.

Edgar is gripping the railings at the river's edge. Terence leaves the group, approaching him from behind. Edgar's silver shoulders rise... and fall... in the moonlight.

“Edgar.”

The ape could squash Terence like a steamroller if he wanted.

“Did they rip you off?” Terence asks quietly.

Edgar's shoulders pause, like he's stopped breathing. He turns. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody. They did it to me too. I had to borrow off Jacob.”

A voice cuts in. “And Jacob mustn't tell anyone, right?”

Terence turns. Steam churns out of Jacob's nostrils in the frozen Geordie air.

Time to man up, Terence thinks. “Jacob. You saw what happened. If I'd have known it wasn't just me being a mug, I'd have kicked off.”

But Terence thinks, Would I? I wish I had, now.

“And you would too. In fact, fuck it,” Terence says. “Lads?” he calls.

The rest of the animals straggle over.

Terence comes clean to them all.

“Fucking hell,” says Harry. “They saw you coming, didn't they!”

“Fuck you.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“We went 'round a few bars," says Terence. “Regular bars. That's all. That's our story, until Fluffy hears otherwise. Then we play it by ear.” He stretches his wings. “There's a few hours to kill 'til the train.”

Terence turns. He paces off down the river front, focussing on a giant electric-blue arc in the sky- some kind of backlit bridge straddling the river, the water's reflection giving the light a loop appearance.

A portal, he thinks.

He wants to pass through it, straight through the middle, just over the water's surface, and burst the space-time continuum, landing back at Oldham Zoo in a split second- channelled straight back onto his isolated perch.

Terence shakes his head clear. Pretentious bastard. It's no wonder you haven't got a girlfriend.

He looks into the black water, passing under the bridge like the events of the night.

I just want to go home. But I guess I'll have to wait.

Terence Hits Newcastle: Part 5

 

Terence looks out over the bar from the raised area. Humans everywhere. No animals.

You fuckers. You've left me. What the fuck do I do now? Wait. There are hardly any dancers either. They're all in the dance booths.

There's a grey mane in the corner of the room, at a table. A tail flicks. A paw lands on the shoulder of a nervous human, manhandling him. The human's friends laugh. Terence flies to Jacob's shoulder.

Jacob's smile drops off his face.

“I need to borrow twenty quid,” Terence says, quietly.

Jacob doesn't lose eye-contact. Doesn't move his head. Just pulls out a purple note.

Terence takes the note, pride-smashed. “Thanks. I've just one favour to ask,” Terence says.

“You mean two.”

“Okay, two. Don't mention this to the lads. Please.”

Jacob nods.

Terence trails back to the girls, stoney-faced, and hands the full wad to them without saying a word.

I want to get out, Terence thinks. There's Peter, coming out of the toilet.

Terence mooches over, avoiding the dancer's gazes, gawping at him from the bar. The hip-hop track changes. He hops up to the Hippo's shoulder.

“I say we make a move,” Terence says.

“Why?” Peter asks, scanning the women.

Terence doesn't have to answer. A blurred image of peach and blonde bursts through the side corridor from the dance booths. The dancer lands, cracking a mirror, slumped crooked against the wall. It's the blonde that danced for Terence.

An entire platoon of doormen charge from the entrance, through the bar, and into the corridor. The customers and dancers shut up. There's a yell. Three doormen bounce back into the room like they've been hit by a speeding car.

Jacob groans. His shoulders slouch. He bounds over to the corridor.

Terence watches the doormen pick themselves up. He can hear Edgar shouting “This is bullshit!” Terence glances to the entrance.

“Stay here,” Jacob orders.

Fuck you, Terence thinks. But he doesn't move.

The doormen wrestle Edgar into view, white shirts bookending black fur in the dim light.

Aaron is waving them back toward the exit like he's some kind of Afrotherian airport marshal. Jacob bounds over, teeth bared. The doormen freeze.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jacob snarls.

Edgar freezes too.

“You're a fucking embarrassment, you know that?” Jacob shakes, like he's shedding fleas from his mane.

The doormen look at Edgar. Edgar looks at the floor.

“Fluffy would be so ashamed,” Jacob says.

Terence closes his eyes. Fuck.

A doorman mouths to another. Fluffy?

“We need to go,” says Aaron.

Edgar shrugs. The doormen loosen their grip.

“I'll go,” says Edgar. I don't give a fuck.” He walks out. His headpad catches on the door. Clock. “Fuck, it hurts when you do it by accident.”