Dear All. Driving through a postcard. Glad I’m here and not there. Showing off. See you – whenever (ha ha). Stan x

Morning in a French Lay-by

‘Do you believe in an afterlife?’ I asked Jessie one morning, bringing her a cup of tea in bed. I love the morning-Jessie best, soft and cuddly, before she dons her chain-mail for a fresh round of jousting.

She yawned, voluptuously creamy legs sprawled on top of the pretty yellow and white flowery duvet. I wanted to rearrange it, to make it more artistically messy, with her supine form sprawled across it.

‘What a thing to bring up first thing in the morning,’ she chided, her voice throaty with sleep and the residue of sex.

‘It’s important. I want to know,’ I insisted, before I bottled out.

She cleared her throat, gaining remarkable speed, volume and voracity within seconds.

‘Put it this way, it was drummed into me at St Ann’s that if I didn’t go into the confessional box every Saturday from the wicked old age of twelve, and uttereth in my most penitent voice, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago and since then I’ve committed mass murder, masturbated myself blind, masterminded a bank robbery and burned an effigy of Christ in a voodoo ritual in Roundhay Park at midnight” – well, then I’d burn in hell. ‘Course, I wasn’t quite the reprobate you see before you today and I was in hell anyway, so what’s the difference. Soon as I left that place I decided to take life by the balls and give it a good twist. Far as I’m concerned there’s too much focusing on the hereafter and a lot of suffering on earth as a consequence.’

It wasn’t quite the answer I’d hoped for, nor the speech. I sorely wished that I’d mastered the art of manipulating a conversation. That I knew how to keep one going instead of prematurely closing it.

‘At least they instilled moral values. People do need a spiritual life, to believe we’re being looked after by a benevolent, omniscient force.’

‘Not disputing that: it’s the heaven and hell scenario what I hate. Any chance of a jam sarnie to go with this cuppa?’

‘What about spirits? Do you believe we come back after we’ve died?’

There, I’d said it. Or had I?

‘Hope so. I’m coming back as an elephant and all those who’ve wronged me will come back as centipedes. Gotcha!’

‘Ghosts!’ I blurted out. ‘Have you ever seen one?’

Jessie emitted a vulgar, scoffing laugh, prolonging its initial impulse until it rang hollow and fake. It was then that I had a little revelation: she didn’t really know me; nor I, her.

‘I’ll tell you what happens. Six feet under, and worms. That’s as spooky as it gets.’