Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Ch. 01

Elfin Safety, that's what Sid called it. But then Sid was old school. 'Look, accidents happen,' he would say. 'And some of them are not very nice. But all the palavering doesn't stop the accidents, it just slows down everything else. Makes even the simplest tasks take twice as long. You don't think the Chinese worry about Elfin Safety, do you? If you're not prepared to risk the odd bump or scrape, don't get out of bed in the morning. That's what I say.'

My accident was an accident waiting to happen. If it hadn't happened to me, it would have happened to one of the others. Jim, maybe. Or Donka. The thing was, when you were controlling the pour, you had to keep your eyes firmly on the crucible, or 'the bucket' as we called it. What happened behind you was what happened behind you. If the boom of the gantry came loose (and, yes, sometimes it did), you just had to hope that you weren't standing in its way.

One of the few things that I sort of remember was being flat on my back. Looking up at the roof trusses. With Sid's ugly mug frowning down at me.

'Coulda been worse,' Sid said, breaking into a half smile. 'If it had hit you a bit lower, you might have a broken arm by now. A broken collarbone even. As it is, it just tapped your noggin. Nothing to worry about there, eh?'

At that stage, I didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't even sure who Sid was. Yeah, he looked vaguely familiar. But only vaguely.

'I suppose you expect us to make you a cup of tea or something, do you?' he said.

And then, suddenly, Cyril was there with the first aid kit. At least I assume it was Cyril. 'Don't move,' he said. 'I've phoned Doris. She's on her way over. She'll know what to do. But first we need to assess your injuries. Umm... your eyes are open. Tick. That's a good sign. And you're breathing. Tick. Now... can you move your fingers?'

Could I? Twenty tiny fingers, twenty tiny toes. That's what Al McCogan reckoned. Al McCogan was one of my grandfather's favourites. Funny name for a girl though. Al. Perhaps Al was short for Alison. Alison McCogan. I expect that was it. And then we were having a family picnic. Down by the riverside. Down by the riv-ver-side. Granddad had his leather-cased transistor radio with him. And Al was now singing Hernando's Hideaway.

'Cyril, go and call an ambulance,' Doris said. And then, turning to me, she said: 'Oh, you're back. You left us for a moment or two there. I think that we had better keep you awake. Do you know what day it is today?'

Did I know what day it was? I suspected that it may have been a trick question. I was pretty sure that it wasn't St David's Day. I thought that we were well past St David's Day -- or Daffodil Day as my mate Taffy called it. And I didn't think that it was St Patrick's Day. But it could have been St Crispin's Day? Friends, Romans, Countryman, once more unto the breach, dear friends. And then it was back to the picnic beside the river.

'No,' Doris said. 'Stay with us.'

'Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, just a little bit longer.' But that was Frankie Valli, wasn't it? Or was it Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs?

I don't remember how we got from the floor of the foundry to the little curtained off cubicle space at the hospital. But I do vaguely remember a chap in scrubs saying 'Sharp scratch,' and then sticking something into my arm. Or maybe that was in another dream.

I ended up spending five days in hospital -- although, to this day, I don't remember much about the first two of them.

On the second to last day, Sid came to visit. 'Well, at least yer head hasn't fallen off,' he said. 'Oh... and yer gonna be getting a visit from one of the Elfin Safety lot. Sorry. I told him that you probably wouldn't remember anything. But... well... you know how they are. Give 'em a badge and clipboard, eh?'

At least Sid was right about me not remembering much. I remembered starting my shift. I remembered tidying up the locker room. And then I tidied up the molds from the previous day. (Someone had just dumped them in a sort of heap.) After that, Donka said that the bucket was ready to pour. I remember putting on my gauntlet gloves and my visor, but after that...? After that it was just a whole lot of dreams that didn't really make much sense.

A couple of weeks later, I was back at the hospital. I had an appointment with one of the neurologists. Just for a check up. Marion, the neurologist, had an office up on the seventh floor. The receptionist told me that Marion was running a little late. 'She shouldn't be long,' the receptionist said. 'She just got called down to A and E. Have a seat in the lounge there.'

I walked into the small side room, sat down on the sofa, and began straightening up the magazines that were scattered across the coffee table. To be honest, I was a bit nervous. I felt as if I was about to sit an important exam without having done any of the necessary swot. I sorted the magazines into three piles, based on their size, and then arranged the piles so that each was at least parallel with the edge of the table.

And then I was aware of someone watching me.

It was a woman. 'George?' she said.

'Umm... yeah.'

'Marion Parker,' she said. 'Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on through.'

Marion was younger than I had expected. Mid thirties. Something like that. 'So... how are you feeling?' she asked, while also tapping on her keyboard and glancing at the monitor slightly to one side of her.

'Not bad,' I said.

'A few headaches?'

'A few,' I told her. 'Yes. But the pills seem to help.'

'Do you remember the accident?'

'Not really,' I said. 'I remember little bits and pieces. Or maybe I don't. Maybe I just remember things that people have told me. I find that quite a few things are rather fuzzy. In fact, lots of things are rather fuzzy. I feel that I am wandering around in a bit of a fog.'

Marion smiled. And nodded. And she tapped on her keyboard again.

'And how are you sleeping?'

'At the drop of a hat. Two or three times a day.'

Marion smiled again. 'Dreams?'

I nodded.

'Do you remember your dreams?'

'Some of them,' I told her.

'And are they pleasant dreams?'

'Some of them are. Some of them are a bit... well... frustrating. I seem to spend quite a bit of time trying to fit things into boxes.'

'Anything in particular?'

'Not really. Just shapes I think. Other boxes. Stuff like that. And I think they keep changing. I seem to spend a lot of time... well... just tidying up. Putting things back where they should be.'

Marion nodded. 'And how do you feel about this?'

'It's a bit annoying. If I'm honest.' I didn't think that I needed to mention to Marion that I kept having dreams about Doris. In most of them, Doris somehow ended up naked. But then I had been having dreams about Doris even before I had the accident.

'It says here that you are a writer,' Marion said. 'And yet the accident happened in a foundry. Is it normal for a foundry to employ writers?'

'The foundry is nothing to do with writing,' I told her. 'I just work at the foundry three days a week. Just for a bit of extra money. Writing doesn't pay that well at the moment. The internet. You know. People expect everything to be free.'

We chatted on for another twenty minutes or so, and then Marion asked if I had always had an OCD tendency.

'OCD?'

'Obsessive compulsive disorder.'

'Disorder?'

'Yeah. But don't worry. Psychologists like to label anything that's a bit unusual as a disorder. Do you find that you have a preference for things to be organised just so? A preference for symmetry? Balance? A place for everything and everything in its place?'

To be honest, I had never really thought about it. 'Yeah... perhaps,' I said. 'I don't like it when things are higgledy-piggledy.'

'Does that cause you stress? When things are... higgledy-piggledy?'

'I suppose so. Sometimes.'

She nodded. 'And do you sometimes have thoughts that you feel you need to suppress? Thoughts that you feel other people might think are strange or perhaps unacceptable?'

Naked Doris probably fell into that category. But I didn't mention that to Marion. 'Not really,' I said.

Marion nodded and tapped on her keyboard again. 'Your brain has suffered what is probably quite a severe trauma,' she said. Her monitor was now covered in about a dozen x-ray-type pictures of brains. Or perhaps they were all different pictures of the same brain. It might even have been my brain. 'I say probably, because what is severe to one person might not seem so severe to the next person. The accident has also caused a severe concussion. The concussion would account for your loss of memory and any fuzziness that you are experiencing. It can also cause mood swings; making you feel grumpy for no apparent reason. You may even feel grumpy that you are feeling grumpy. It's a bit of a vicious circle, I'm afraid.'

Since she had mentioned it, yes, I had been feeling a bit grumpy. I thought that it was perhaps because I couldn't really concentrate on anything.

'How are your hands?' Marion asked.

'My hands?'

'Any numbness? Any pins and needles? Anything like that?'

'Don't think so.'

'Several times, while we've been chatting, you have tapped your left hand with your right hand -- three times -- and then you have tapped your right hand with your left hand -- again, three times.'

'Have I? Probably. Yeah. I don't know why I do that,' I said. 'Just habit, I guess.'

Marion nodded and tapped away at her keyboard again.

'So...,' I said, 'can I go back to work?'

'Probably not just yet,' Marion said. 'I'm not sure how safe that would be. I think we should talk again in a few days. Maybe this time next week?'

I was in the cab, on my way back from my session with Marion, when Doris phoned. 'Are you OK?' she asked.

'I think so,' I told her. 'I just had a session with Marion. The neurologist. But, yeah, I think I'm OK.' And then I wondered if Marion had already spoken to Doris and told her about the OCD and stuff. Or perhaps she had told her about the fact that I had been having dreams about Doris, dreams in which Doris usually ended up naked. Although I hadn't told Marion about that, had I? 'Why?' I asked.

'I need to talk to you,' Doris said. 'We have the health and safety people looking into us. Not that I'm saying they shouldn't be looking into us. I've been telling Sid for quite some time that we've been flying a bit close to the sun.'

'The sun?'

'A bit close to the wire. Leaving too many things to chance. But you know what Sid's like.'

It sounded a bit as though Sid was going to be in trouble. I didn't really want Sid to get into trouble on my account. Having the part-time job at the foundry was really useful. That, together with my column and the odd freelance assignment, gave me enough to live on and still left me with time to work on my novel. 'Do you want me to come and see you?' I said.

'It's OK. I can come to you,' Doris said. 'When would be a good time?'

'Any time really,' I told her. 'It's not as if I'm doing anything.'

'Why don't I come over now?' she said. 'Have you eaten?'

'Not recently.'

'I'll bring something for lunch.'

When I got back to the flat, I had so much going on in my head that I was halfway up the stairs before I realised that I couldn't remember whether I had taken the first step with my left foot or my right foot. I hoped that it had been with my left foot. But I couldn't be sure. So I had to turn around, go back downstairs, and start all over again.

Doris arrived about half an hour later. She had been to La Boulangerie and was carrying one of their distinctive boxes. 'I got us a caramelised red onion quiche,' she said. 'It's probably too much for lunch, but you might feel like some later.'

'Nice.'

I liked Doris. She didn't just put the box onto the kitchen counter any old how. She placed it carefully so that it looked as if it was meant to be there. Doris had also brought a tub of coleslaw. She placed that down carefully too.

'So... you've been to the hospital,' she said. 'Everything OK?'

'Sort of,' I told her. 'I have to have another week off work. And Marion, the doctor, says that I am probably going to be grumpy. Something to do with concussion.'

Doris nodded sympathetically.

And then it all tumbled out. 'And she wanted to know if I had always had an OCD tendency. I didn't even know that I did. I wasn't even sure that there was such a thing. But now that I do... now that I think about it....'

Again, Doris nodded sympathetically. And she smiled. 'It doesn't mean that you are a bad person,' she said.

'Did you know?' I asked. 'Did you know that I had an OCD tendency?'

'I... umm... suspected,' she said. And then she asked if I had a couple of plates. For the quiche. And a knife to cut it with.

I got out a couple of plates and placed them next the box.

'Shall I be mother?' Doris asked.

Funnily enough, 'Mother' was what Sid called Doris. 'That bloody woman's always fussing,' he often said. 'She needs a bit of the old pork sword, that's what she needs.'

Watching Doris lift the quiche from the box and carefully cut it into four identical quarters, I suddenly realised that she was wearing a skirt. Doris never wore a skirt. Well... not never. Obviously. But at work, she always wore trousers. I suppose the fact that she was always coming and going between the office and the foundry made trousers... well... more practical. There might even have been a rule about wearing a skirt in the foundry. Health and safety? Something like that?

'You have really nice legs,' I told her. And then I wished that I hadn't said that. Now she would know that I had been looking at her legs. Now she would think that I was some kind of weirdo.

'Thank you,' she said.

'I didn't mean....'

Doris smiled at me and pulled the hem her skirt up slightly. 'They're not bad, are they?' she said. 'Even if I say so myself. I have to keep them hidden at work. But we're not at work now, are we? I'm pleased that you like them.' And she pulled her skirt a bit higher. Well... quite a lot higher, actually.