The Wart Went

I got my first ever wart on the last day of Lent:

My nana Dot rubbed a chunk of raw-meat on it,

Then told me to go and bury it.

After about a week the wart went.

Rector Seal, he always parked his bike on top my nana’s,

In the graveyard - she was inside doing the church flowers.

I can see them now, locked like a couple of locked spanners,

Up against a gravestone.

Nana Dot said, he needs all the help he can get, pray for him,

Reverend Seal’s got trouble with his waterworks.

It turned-out to be a kidney stone.

But the miracle of the wart and buried meat

Led me to operate on Seal’s seat.

Splatter-proof in my cycle cape

I studied the anatomy of his bike:

Imagined the break cables and water bottle

Circulating Seal blood - full throttle.

There was even something scrotum-like

About his old leather saddlebag.

And I knew I’d made the right decision

As soon as I made the first incision;

Through the epidermis of Seal’s saddle,

To the blubber-like foam in the middle.

I cut round the colon of springs

To the sound of the choir practicing hymns,

Yet when I hit skeletal frame,

I settled on burying a chunk of the fat-like foam.

Before patching up the scars

With a strip of tape from the handlebars.

Nana Dot died years ago.

But Seal’s still on his bike as far as I know.

Nana Dot cradling, not glue-sniffing (traced), 1987

Reverend Seal was the vicar of St Mary’s Church. My grandmother, Dorothy (nana Dot) adored him; she was a tireless worker for the church – an “Excellent Woman” - Barbra Pymesque; tidying the graves; arranging the flowers; organizing jumble sales; ringing the bells; mending prayer mats; teaching Sunday School; attending funerals (often, the burials of complete and utter strangers – she lived for funerals).

Both sides of the same page of the Parish Magazine, announcing my baptism, 1964

I don’t know whether or not Dot noticed that an advertisement for ‘Complete Funeral Undertakers – Day and Night’ happened to be printed on the reverse-side of the page announcing my baptism in the Parish Magazine. The irony would have been lost on her though; given a preference, she’d have attended a funeral over a baptism any day.

The hand of my father (son of Dot), a Sunday-painter, sketched the outline and I added the colour, in this Sunday-school depiction of “The Cradling of Baby Jesus”.

Looking at it now, I appear to have got my bible stories reversed. My image reads more like the post-crucifixion gathering at Christ’s tomb than the ‘Birth of the Infant Child’: Mark 16:1-4 When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

My chalk ‘Cradling’ is a direct copy (combination) of two sleeping bag advertisements from Climber & Rambler magazine (home of rock walls and boulders, the home too of Peter Storm). It’s as if I were painting the contradiction of my baptism/funeral collision from the pages of the Parish Magazine: plagiarism by anticipation?

The loner in the sleeping bag was based on Reverend Seal.

There were three women involved: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Salome; they planned to bring spices to apply to the body. Apparently the women did not know that the tomb had been sealed and placed under guard. The sealing involved a cord that passed around the stone, and that was attached to the rock wall with sealing wax that had been impressed with an official Roman seal.

Shady Cradle Roll Certificate

It’s not much of a leap: from cagoules to sleeping bags, via a cycle cape (doubling as a surgeon’s gown). Especially when bridged by a vicar called Seal. But isn’t the concept of hermetically sealed metaphors a contradiction? Vicars, like the rest of us, when sealed in hooded-sleeping bags, resemble seals. Perhaps now you can see why I’m so obsessed about stalking Peter Storm in Peter Storm in a storm (see “Storm-Proof”, 26/11/09). Larkin was right: you can't escape your wrong beginnings. But they are great levelers, sleeping bags: they reduce us all to the same sealed, seal state; as well as making us vulnerable to the same fate: very difficult to defend yourself against a golf club attack when you’re in a sleeping bag.

Sunny Cradle Roll Certificate

Storm-Proof

Translation:

29^th Mon, 108 -16mins. No OAPs. Hairdryer start today. Grey. 2 Quality Street for breakfast. Peter Storm, I’m thinking of Peter Storm left in the sun. The magazine and say a real Peter Storm, say. No OAPs etc.

30^th Tues. No OAPs etc. 108 – 17min. Sun – cold. Hairdryer in bed.

Interpretation of the translation:

On Monday 29^th I managed 108 pull-ups in 16 minutes; but I didn’t do any on one arm (a shoulder injury or just too heavy?). I had the hairdryer on in bed (did I wake up with it on? Had it been on all night?). It was a grey day and I breakfasted on 2 sweets. Was Peter Storm, my waking thought, the froth of a forgotten dream? Notice the size of the text has doubled where I’m talking/thinking about Storms; the text occupies the remainder of the day (which appears to have ended badly without me having done a one-arm-pull-up.

On Tuesday 30^th I still can’t do any one-arm-pull-ups but I do 108 two-armed, in 16 minutes. It’s cold and sunny and I’m in bed with the hairdryer again - and throughout the rest of the week I don’t appear to give another thought to Peter Storm.

So who is Peter Storm? I know of two Peter Storms; but which one is the real Peter Storm, the one that stormed my mind? Let’s revisit the original text: “I’m thinking of Peter Storm left in the sun. The magazine and say a real Peter Storm, say”.

Was I thinking of Peter Storm the chief Executive Officer of “Peter Storm Jewelry”, a seasoned professional in the jewelry industry with over 25 years in the business? “I design sensual jewelry for women to wear and treasure, pieces to be worn every day of their lives”, says Californian born, Peter Storm. 

This would explain my thinking of “a real Peter Storm left in the sun”. Yes, a real diamond radiating light – floating on my wedding finger - that fits. And the diamonds could also explain “Say a real Peter Storm, say”: the diamonds would have to be 'real'. At this point it’s worth quoting a bite of Storm’s advertising blurb (from a magazine advertisement) in full: A major theme in all Peter Storm’s designs is illusion. The diamonds in each of his pieces are presented to speak for themselves. His use of shadow and space allows the eye to focus on the diamonds and nothing else. Peter Storm is the first designer to create “Floating Diamonds”, princess cut diamonds set point to point, that appear to float with no visible metal holding the stones. All his designs are special in their simplicity and drama… Each diamond has its own distinct identity against the flesh tones of the wearer. The look combines the elegance of natural skin and the radiance of “Naked” diamonds”.

No, I must have been thinking about the other Peter Storm, the company that specializes in cheap waterproof and thermal clothing for walking, sailing and golf; Peter Storm, the manufacturer of cagoules, long johns and nylon trousers. Peter Storm wasn’t even its founder’s real name. One Noel Bibby started the company in 1954 and called it Storm for obvious reasons. But the Peter was more problematic; he agonized over Brian, Terry, Colin, Arthur and Connor before settling on Peter; and Peter Storm are still keeping us wet – yes - wet: even though their nylon products are rainproof they have a tendency to cause you sweat profusely: sweat they keep in. Go into any Blacks or Millets and discretely slip you hand down the front of the waterproof trousers worn by the Peter Storm-sealed manikins (and they are easy to spot – they’re usually in bright blue or orange) and you’ll be sure to pull your palm out again, sweaty.

In the early 1980’s, I read two climbing magazines: “Mountain” and “Climber & Rambler”. The back-covers of both journals were almost identical every month - full-bleed adverts for Peter Storm cagoules. I searched though my back-issues of both magazines and acted upon my strange journal entry "I'm thinking of Peter Storm in the sun. The magazine..." I put one magazine inside the other and left them on my windowsill for a year.

Peter Storm facing the sun

Peter Storm kept in the dark
The Peter Storm inside Peter Storm

But I’m not content to either bask in the sun or hide in the dark: I want to experience the eye of the storm. I have to meet the real Peter Sorm. I’m going to check the phonebook. I’m going to blind-call every P. Storm: “Hello, am I speaking to Peter Storm?” If a Patrick, Paul or Percy answers I’ll hang up (P-off?). But when I do get on to a real Peter Storm, I’m going to ask him if owns a Peter Storm cagoule. If he’s a ‘wearer’ I’m going to ask if I can photograph him in the cagoule (in the style of an old Peter Storm advert). If he doesn’t wear any Peter Storm products I’m going to ask him why on earth not?  I’ll even offer to buy him a cagoule on the condition that he lets me photograph him wearing it. He can be photographed with the hood up if he so chooses, but it has to be the real Peter Storm inside Peter Storm. 

Storm stalking disguise

If he asks "why?" Or "what for?" I’ll tell him I need ‘Storm-Proof’. And if he says he wear’s a cagoule but refuses to be photographed in it, I’ll stalk him whenever it rains; I'll be heavily disguised in Peter Storm gear  – stalk a Storm in a Storm in a storm: Peter Storm stalking Peter Storm. He exists all right, and I’m going to find him – the man born Peter Storm. You’ve probably passed him in the rain – an ordinary, average looking middle-aged character (could smell) in an orange cagoule. He breathes. He sweats; and beneath the nylon veneer his skin and bones and vital organs are all Peter Storm too; he’s Peter Storm through and through. But I’ve got to have proof; I need it to be Storm-proof.