Sometimes they speak back…

Hello, good morning, good evening, good night. Whoever you are, wherever you may be, whyever you choose to read this column, it is my pleasure to welcome you back aboard this mildly amusing corner of page 10.

As always, I will be your captain on this quick flight, and, as usual, you will be my nameless, faceless passengers.

I was going to tell you a strange story I heard the other day, in which a wee fella from a local secondary school could not be persuaded – or begged – not to pay five pounds for the dregs, backwash, residual fizz of another young lad’s can of juice, but I am afraid I have to broach a much more awkward topic, one that I have been avoiding for a while.

See, the thing is, and this might sound untactful and frank, but, anyway, here goes…

We have been talking for a few months, and, in that time, you have learned a right bit about me, but I still know so little about you. In truth, you are still a stranger to me.

All I can be sure of is that you are reading this now – whenever ‘now’ is. But, beyond that, I haven’t a clue. You are an inference, a projection, a figment of my imagination.

Sometimes I lie awake in bed, three – maybe even four – buttons of my matching pyjamas undone, and I wonder who you are, where you are, and what your life is like.

Of course, I know you are my auntie, my granda, and a wee woman called Bernadine who occasionally writes kind missives of encouragement, and thanks.

But who else are you?

For all I know, you could be a haughty local merchant, sitting at your desk in the early morning, adjusting and readjusting your position as your circulation-stopping trousers threaten the health of your extremities.

Perhaps, with another unsuccessful shuffle, you force out a derisive laugh, blow a disdainful blow upon your scalding coffee, and flick the page in search of something more suited to the weighty world in which you live.

Or, perhaps, maybe you are a tragic romantic, even local legend, the kind of person that strangers smile to and say hello, whether you know them or not. If so, I hope you are reading this restfully, pausing briefly every few paragraphs to slurp from a cool can of something that hits the spot. Or, maybe you are tortured teacher in a local secondary school, staring blankly upon this page as you attempt to hide your hungover face from the class of hormone-deranged adolescents they have entrusted you with taming and educating.

The fact is, this (writing articles) is an incredibly odd form of communication. It is unilateral, one-way, and remote.

Sometimes it feels more akin to screaming into the void than having a conversation.

However, sometimes you discover that the void is populated. And from the blackness, they speak back.

I recently wrote a kind of post-mortem of a psychic show I attended. Those two pages elicited the same number of written responses from the public; one searing and scornful, the other appreciative and thankful.

I’ll quote from both so you can get a flavour. We will go for the nice one first.

“Just wanted to say thanks for the column you wrote about Psychic Fiona. I had family members who attended the Mellon last week, and came away feeling more upset than before.

“However, your column helped to put things into perspective for them, and lifted the burden, so thank you.”

Wasn’t that lovely. Now for the counterweight – the spiteful ying to the grateful yang.

I will not be able to quote all three of the small pages she wrote, but, trust in my curation. You’ll get the best bits.

It opened, “I found it terribly depressing to see two pages devoted to the psychic.”

She continued, “These psychics prey on the most vulnerable… people who go to see them are gullible in the extreme.”

Then she turned on me, invoking the great German philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein to do so.

“Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must remain silent.”

I have never been told to shut my bake in such a pompous manner. I bet Liz brings a copy of John Locke’s ‘Two Treatises on Government’ to the pub, just in case a slagging session breaks out.

So, while I may never know who the majority of you are, I know, at the very least, you are there.

And I really value and enjoy the interaction when it arrives. For good, and, yes, for bad.

So, in the event that anything I publish ever rises such passionate emotions within that writing a letter crosses your mind, do not let the notion fade without acting upon it.

Step forth and fill the void!