Clothes

There is something oddly gratifying about meeting up with old friends in London or anywhere in Britain. The sheer endurance of these relationships gives me heart. I first met my British relations 40 years ago. The friends soon followed. And for many of us, it has never stopped whatever 'it' is. And particularly right now, the question is worth asking. I immediately think of how different I look. My neck is out of joint, my head twisted askew. My tolerance for sitting has shrunk along with my skin thickness. I look worse and feel worse, and yet it feels better than ever to arrange a curry with friends. As for the curry, my tolerance has waned over the years. Indian food is rich, loaded as it is with ghee, clarified butter. And four decades ago I could knock the stuff back in enormous quantities, but no more. And now just sitting at a table is a major osteoarthritic experience. I cross my legs, often with someone's help, about 30 minutes into any meal. I rise from my wheelchair, sheepishly making the same joke about giving a speech. I'm actually giving the lower back a stretch. The home stretch, in terms of lifespan. But who knows about lifespan? Please pass the chicken vindaloo, and, yes, I'll have a little more of the bindji and some sag.

People are busy. People of my age are still working. And for me, 'working' consists of getting up in the morning, getting into the tea and making the awesome journey to London. True, it is another world when the train doors open at Paddington Station. First, there are the objects. One bag, one crutch, one wheelchair, one life. It's enough to shake a person out of his lethargy, collect his wits and be on high anti-theft alert. But this is one of the least cozy realities of British urban life, the prospect of getting things nicked. By the time I have made it through sooty, thunderous Paddington and been placed, if the authorities are on their toes, at the head of the cab queue, I am in urban mode, looking around in all directions, scanning the territory near and far. And this habit never stops, not really, until I close the door to my hotel.

So, with people working, bodies failing, time running out, I will find myself dining with a cast of thousands at some curry restaurant on Thursday evening. Caroline's son Jake has a place in mind. And that I am in the minds of friends and family after all these years and all these losses with only a few threads of spinal cord...it's gratifying. It's gratifying that people care. That we can still tune into each other. And that I can get back into the flow of local life.

It seems to take longer than it did. I have BBC Radio 4 on in the mornings, most evenings. And it's a pleasant discovery, hearing the day's events toned down, quieted and discussed...the segments are longer, the whole feel less choppy. I can't quite get a handle on the current national loathing for the government of Gordon Brown. But hearing about it, listening to the world news unfold through the minds of BBC broadcasters, it's almost calming. Britain's problems are not mine, at least currently. I float upon the news.

Later, I float upon the A3400, the road to Stratford upon Avon. The town may be Shakespeare's birthplace, but to me, it is Marks & Spencer's outpost. It's where I stock up on attire. Marlou has advised me quite effectively in the Stratford M & S, but now it's Caroline's job. My job is to, aside from being a passenger, lightly adjust the tiller on the ship of life. I see my first chance as we drive past the store. Incredibly, I actually recall where the disabled parking spaces are. They are where they last were, just up the street, and all of them are full. What shall we do? Caroline's suggestions have this let's-get-on-with-it flavor...park anywhere and run in, being the most prominent. We pull into an empty space next to the disabled cars. Caroline gives each of the handicapped vehicles the fisheye, but all have proper parking permits. One motorist returns to briefly drop something in his car, and my cousin says something to him. Probably something along the lines of 'when do you plan to move?' He says something to her. And the situation ignites.

'That man was hardly disabled', Caroline says. 'And he was rude'.

What follows only occurs at the strange conjunction of things Jewish, German and English. Civil law clashes with Higher Law and with Human Decency, all of which are invoked in the ensuing discussion over parking. Caroline is now rising to the mission. The putative mission is to buy me a new sweater and sports jacket. But the immediate, Higher Purpose is to assert our human rights to park our car here, within short wheeling distance of a department store, despite the injustice evident in the spaces next to ours. For they are certainly, or at least very likely, impostors, these disabled-parking riffraff. Mine is the real thing, my disability, limbs askew, functions limited and purpose just. The paralyzed man wants to buy clothes, the authorities will not let him, and I can see my cousin getting wound up about whole thing.

'We'll leave the traffic warden a note', Caroline says.

Parking in a place like Stratford, with Shakespeare tourists washing up and down the streets in waves, is a cut-and-dried affair. You pay the Council in the form of a £1 coin, or you pay them in the form of a £50 ticket...as one would in San Francisco or most traffic-clogged places. Forget the note. Also forget hanging a California disabled placard from the mirror. Not that it can hurt, but I don't know the parking rules here. And whatever they are, they are. I urge Caroline to give the Council its lucre, place a 30-minute permit on her dashboard...and we will play the rest by ear. Reluctantly, she agrees. And we're off.

I am not good at shopping for clothes. When I arrived in London 40 years ago attire became important, and my cousins provided the necessary help. Today, my brother and sister serve much the same function. When necessary, they point and I buy. Marlou, of course, was very good at wardrobe, and I happily delegated all such matters to her. Now, it's Caroline's job. I tell her quite frankly to wander about Marks & Spencer's men's clothing racks and grab what's good. She pronounces one particular sports jacket to be up to standard. And now I have to be up to standing in front of a mirror and considering the matter. What's the matter with me, my body, my posture, my entire physiognomy, all of this reflects itself out of the glass, and in the end it comes down to the same thing. She points, and I buy.

The car has come through the afternoon without a parking ticket. I have come through several lives in one, it seems. Which is why meeting friends for dinner in London is so satisfying. How many lives ago did we become friends? How many times has Caroline been my fashion buyer, then handed the job over to someone else, then again taken up the reins? I've come through it all...and with so much death in the air, my air, this is what helps me breathe.