1. Lammy the lamp-post

1. LAMMY THE LAMP-POST


There are demons at the back of every writer’s mind, lurking around, gnawing at the processes of creativity. I know at least one of mine, and I see him – or I should say sense him, for I never get so far as seeing him – every time my mind goes blank and the empty white page stays stubbornly empty and white. His name – I think it is a he but can’t be quite sure – is Lammy the lamp-post, and he is far more terrifying than anything I have created.

Lammy, you see, was never created properly. He spent three days trying to be born; three whole days of me trying to build up a portfolio of information about him and failing, remarkably, to produce a single line. He had come to me like a divine revelation one day whilst I was in the middle of loading the dishwasher. Lammy the lamp-post. What a fantastic idea it seemed, exciting me to a fever pitch of enthusiasm. Lammy would be a magical gateway to another world for me, one I could invent myself and lose myself in, and then become fantastically rich off the film rights.

The only problem was, the concept never developed further than a character – or was it an object, I wasn’t sure? – called Lammy that was a lamp-post. I tried so hard for three depressing days, pouring my soul into trying to breathe life into Lammy, but in the end, he was still-born. All I had were a few carbohydrates and a few fibres, but no fats, acids, proteins, minerals and vitamins, in short – no breath of life to make him real.

Lammy is sniggering and sneering at me right now, as I write. How he sniggers and sneers, or what he looks like when he is sniggering and sneering, I do not know. In fact, that is partly why he is sniggering and sneering. The truth is that Lammy lives on, running around causing mischief in the underworld of my mind. I rather wish he had died a forgotten death, rather than haunting me like this, but I cannot undo the brief lightning bolt of euphoric inspiration that brought him into existence. That he is half-formed, embittered and devoid of reality is, I sorely confess, my own responsibility.

Yet Lammy, to me, is very real. I know him intimately and yet not at all. He is from a shadow world of things forgotten and unseen, out there somewhere in the wilderness of my imagination, taunting me to discover him and distracting me beyond tolerability when I ignore him.

Lammy, do tell me, where are you? Can you speak to me?

I don’t even know if he can talk. After all, he is a lamp-post, but might he be a talking lamp-post?

Lammy, I am so sorry I botched you up so badly and know or remember so little about you. You know me more than I know you, but you forgive me, don’t you?

Lammy is silent. Actually, Lammy is always silent. Perhaps he is not a talking lamp-post after all.

Yes, Lammy, I know that doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings.

I can’t understand Lammy. I don’t even know what sort of lamp-post he is. Is he a Victorian gas-burner or one of those tall modern things that turn on automatically when it’s dark and have funny little knobs at the top?

Lammy is crying now, or at least I sense him crying, I can’t see him and I don’t know how he cries. I know it’s no good trying to write about anything else, as if I do my mind will go blank, and if I look at the blank place, I will see Lammy, whatever Lammy looks like.

Okay, Lammy, I’m going to go on a journey. I want to resolve you. I’m going on a journey into my imagination to find you. Well, rather, I’m going to send someone to find you, as I know you wouldn’t talk to me.

Now, who shall I send?

I know, I shall send a girl this time, as girls are sensible. In the past I’ve sent adults but they’ve been too awkward and have once or twice been quite rude to me. I’ve sent boys too, who’ve been interesting but too easily distracted; the last one ran away from home to live with the hedgehog people and never got to see any lamp-posts at all. No, I shall send a young girl and her name shall be Samantha.

Now then, Samantha – I hope you don’t mind the formality of Samantha and I know you prefer to be called Sam but that sounds too much like a boys name and would confuse me – I’d like to ask you a few questions.

Samantha is forming like mist on the window of my mind. I must be careful with her. Girls of this age can be quite fragile to make, and I really don’t want to do something wrong and have her stampeding around my mind in an adolescent tantrum like a certain other entity I could mention.

Yes, Lammy, I know you don’t like being called an entity, but that is what you are and that is why you are so disturbing to me. Now be quiet, and be on your very best behaviour with the character I am sending to meet you.

Now, Samantha, back to you. Yes, I know you need more attention and I am sorry that I have been briefly neglecting you, but in this world you really must stand on your own two feet and the earlier you grow out of this pubertal attention-seeking the better.

As I was saying, Samantha is in the process of forming in the midst of my imagination. Only a really, truly gifted and intellectual person like myself is capable of magicking people up like this, so don’t be disappointed if you try this at home and it doesn’t work.

Now, back to Samantha.

Oh dear.

Samantha, where are you?

I think she might have run off, the impatient little brat!

Samantha, I know you are here somewhere.

Ah, there she is.

Yes, Samantha, I know and I’m sorry. I really, truly will pay more attention to you from now on, I promise.

I’m beginning to regret calling up a girl to do this.

Right, Samantha, I am sending you deep into my imagination. I am closing my eyes and humming a special meditation. I have an incense candle burning serenely. I am relaxing. Good, now are you still there, Samantha?

She is, though she’s blowing bubblegum at me in a rather insolent way.

Okay, Samantha, you are inside my head somewhere. I want you to tell me everything you know about lamp-posts.

She is looking at me in an infuriating way, and obviously thinks I am being very stupid. Her attitude is entirely wrong for the task I created her for. Teenage angst stories are not my thing, and I honestly do not know where on earth I got her from.

Samantha, are you listening to me?

She is, very sullenly. I do wish she would acknowledge me more.

Samantha, talk to me about lamp-posts. What can you see?

She is doodling with her hair and isn’t even looking at me.

Come on, Samantha, be reasonable. I have great plans for you, great plans indeed, but first you must help me.

Ah, at last an answer! Doesn’t that show how brilliant and patient I am with my characters?

She says she is hanging around in a friend’s front garden, and outside it there is a street with lots of lamp-posts.

What do you know about the lamp-posts? Is one of them unique in anyway? Do you know anything about a lamp-post called Lammy?

She is not even looking at me, just gossiping away with her friends. I didn’t even create these friends of hers. She really does have a nerve, creating characters of her own in my head. If she does that again, I will just leave her there in the front garden, abandoned, until something nasty happens the next time a high temperature gives me a bad dream.

No, Samantha, really, really, I didn’t mean that.

Okay, okay, I’ll call you Sam. I see your friends call you Sam and you think Samantha is a bit naff.

Yes, yes, once I’ve sorted this lamp-post business out, I’ll let you do more exciting things. I know lamp-posts aren’t your thing, but I need your help here. My creative future, my career as a writer depends on it.

Okay, okay, now tell me more.

She says that in every street there’s a person who’s responsible for turning all of the lamp-posts on when it gets dark and then off again when it becomes light in the morning. How interesting. I wonder whether such persons really exist, or is it all done by computers nowadays?

Sam, can you tell me where the man or woman lives who is responsible for the lamp-posts turning on and off in your street?

She says there is a man at number 200 who does the lamp-posts, and in fact, in every street it is the person at number 200 who does this. That really is fascinating. If I can meet the man at number 200, I might get closer to finding Lammy and exorcising the writers block that has been overshadowing me for so long.

Right, Sam, I’d like you to go to number 200. I want to talk to the man, and I need you to facilitate it.

She isn’t listening, as she is too busy messing around with her friends, who I do not think I approve of at all, actually. Soon I will become very, very angry.

Samantha, please listen. Did you hear what I said?

I’m sorry, I meant Sam, I didn’t mean to say Samantha. No, I’m not putting on a voice, this is how I talk. I need to talk to the man. Can you help me with that?

She is nodding, not really looking at me. I really don’t like the way she is slouching at the moment, it demonstrates a profound disrespect for her whole environment. In my day, if we did that we got a clip round the ear. I blame the entertainment industry for publicising behaviour like this.

Sam, will you please, please, please listen to me?

She just burped very loudly and croakily. I don’t think she was doing it at me personally, but all the same it is incredibly vulgar.

Sam?

She’s eating one of her nails.

Sam, you are to go to number 200. Do you understand?

Oh look, some signs of movement now. Oh yes, oh yes! I really do think she’s walking down the street. Hooray! I got there in the end, overcoming all obstacles. This is testament to my genius.

Thank you so much, Sam.

No. Oh no, please. The rest of them are following her. Oh goodness, they look like a right bunch of nomadic louts. How do they have the audacity to slob along like that? Oh no, please! You little thug! That boy just spat on the pavement. Now another one’s making silly faces. Oh, and the way they talk! Every word sounds so aggressive, so hideously spat out.

I’m really not sure I want to send them to number 200 now. The poor man might be a bit alarmed by this lot. Should I stop them? I mean, I have responsibilities don’t I?

No, I’ve got to do it for Lammy. Poor, old Lammy. Oh Lammy, I’m sorry, I’ve been so cruel to you, I know, but I really am doing my best to understand you and you must know that.

They are all walking really, really slowly now. Some of them are walking backwards. One of those yobs just pee’d against a tree, the animal. I can’t go on watching this for much longer.

Sam, hurry up!

She says she just asked her friend, and this street only goes up to number 169.

Sam, where does the man or woman live who turns the lamp-posts on and off for this street?

Sam, how dare you talk to me like that.

Yes, Sam, of course I’m interested in you for you, okay? Now don’t tell me I don’t care, because I do.

Yes, I know you have needs. Don’t say I don’t understand you.

Oh dear, I can’t deal with this.

She says the stuff about there being a person turning on and off the lamp-posts for every street was something she just made up.

Sam, I really am very, very, very angry and disappointed in you.

Now she says it was her friend who told her about all that, and she is sobbing and yelling at me and saying she always gets the blame for everything.

Sam, please calm down.

I’m sorry, but I’ve had it. Every time I try to find Lammy something always goes wrong. That’s it, I’ve finished. Obviously this is just another failed attempt, and I will never get to write anything.