“My—sin.”

I got that out all right. But of course it was the old intolerance’s deliberate mistake that has made calamity of so much. I tried again, not being minded to be its fool.

“Not. Sin. I. am. sin.”

Chapter XII

I haven’t the heart or courage to reread that lot. It was a bad time and the very memory tempts me to the bottle which I am anxious to avoid. Behold old Filthy Rags wandering with the immediate awareness that old you-know-who has its eye on him no matter what. I didn’t mind the wanderings much because there was nothing to be done. I can’t explain that, you’ll have to take it as read. There was nothing to be done. Please see the joke! Here was Wilfred Barclay with the world willing (in a small way) to beat a path to his door (not at home). Here was old Wilf with what young men long for, as much money as he could spend and more, growing old, of course, but not aware he was screaming, dismarried if I can put it that way and quite possibly some sort of marriageable commodity if he had stayed long enough in one place, able to ride, fly, glide, sit, stand, walk, healthy in mind and body against all the odds with the world wide open for him—here, I say, was Wilf in a state of perfect freedom. People should be warned against it. Freedom should carry a government health warning like cancer sticks! Teach that in the schools, thunder it from the pulpits, rise to propose it, Mr Speaker, hear hear, at all costs do not trust it, gentle maiden!

Is that what I am trying to convey?

Well. There is freedom and freedom. Surfacing as I say, I dissected myself into various portions that were at once held together and threatened by the steel string. The first thing I tried was catatonia. That provided a straightforward blow to the Barclay pride. I couldn’t keep it up. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t. The loo, for one thing. Adepts in the kingdom of Catatonia are able to ignore that as well so their obedient slaves do them up in nappies or what Rick would call diapers. I just wasn’t good enough at it, that’s all. Despite my every wish (and here you see the wilder shores of freedom receding) I’d have to get up and go to the loo. I even had to eat and drink, not booze, I mean but water, tea, coffee, limejuice, wet stuff. I couldn’t even avoid the thought that girls were interesting. Well, not interesting, just a lot of other things. I discovered my dreadful hatred for homosexuality. When it came to the point that I could recognize catatonia was a dead loss I thought I’d try fun. Fun. That’s what I thought. Be your age, I said, you’re only in your sixties after all and you can go on facing your youth, you don’t have to look behind you except every now and then. Commit. That verb is to remain intransitive. Go forth old man and commit. Commit afresh. Since there’s nothing to be done you might as well do something. Have some fun, hon. That set me to considering the deepest double-dyed commit that I could find. Now I, being a true Christian child of the twentieth century, you will think that I evolved some funny stuff with girls or children; but not so.