Needling the Empire

A recruitment workshop

The needle-making workshop was filled with an air of expectancy. Full of old ladies in corners, needles poised, young mums shushing daughters, and unremarkable men, confused about how they ended up in a workshop full of pensioners.

The Mistress Needle Maker entered the room.

Striving with a purpose and no time to stop and chat with her expectant guests, she quietly assumed a position at the front of the class. The Mistress was a brooding presence, consumed with anger over the debased state of modern culture and manners. Dressed in a white frock that wouldn’t look out of place in a Victorian sweatshop, her buttons rose from the midriff to her collar - starched to perfection. The look was completed with a grey pencil skirt, brown stockings, and ankle-length boots. She was the embodiment of tense.

The Mistress waited for complete silence before she began.

“Today, we shall learn the art of needling.”

A hand, bravely raised, threatened to derail her opening monologue.

“There will be time for questions at the end.”

“But I just…”

“No.”

“But…”

“No,” replied the Mistress with such intensity, that the questioner lowered their hand and shrunk into their seat. There were to be no further interruptions as the Mistress delivered her off-the-cuff State of the Nation address.

“Needling is the purest form of provocation. Bourgeois ambition has been unevenly applied across the very fabric of our country. Some individuals dwell between the margins. Unsettled. Aimless. Unresolved in their attitudes. They seek closure and certainty and it is to them for which we shall appeal. Our needling will spark their discourse. Our needling will alight their passions. It is within each one of us to pursue these bland, non-descript persons and coerce them into choosing.

Our needling will bring out the worst of the fascists, the racists, and the antisemites. We shall poke and prod until their true colors are exposed. As a collective, we are stronger together. The naive, inarticulate, and primordial masses will resent our presence. They will do their best to inform us that needling should only be applied to the skin. Surface-level puncturing. Tiny punctures to encourage regrowth.

They will say, ‘You are wrong.’ They will say, ‘Go back to your workshop.’ The human impulse to betray and mislead will drive their opposition. Every society historically has to regulate the deluded populace. It is our role to expose their true nature.”

The Mistress surveyed the class. They were ready.

“This session will be for one hour followed by a generous self-service buffet for lunch with deep-pan pizza or hamburger with curry. There will be no questioning of my methods or misdirection. I require nothing more than your total obedience.”

With that, the class promptly began at 11.00 am.

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Cancer Watch or Depression Corner

It’s Day 15 of radiotherapy. Two days ago, as I applied the recommended cream to my raw skin, large clumps of hair stuck plastered to my hand. The left side of my beard, formerly known as a lush growth of hair housing a microsystem of infinite wonders, is all but gone.

At least now I can say I have a better side.

You can trace where the Linear Accelerator has penetrated. It’s like a bad image from the Amazon where loggers have desecrated large swathes of forests, hacking a path with no regard for nature.

My throat is on fire.

My tongue is ulcerated.

And I’m so fucking tired.

Day 15. Halfway. I have to keep reminding myself this isn’t forever (well, maybe the beard loss is). In under three weeks, there will be no more cancer. I will be healthy again. All this is short-term pain for long-term gain.

And yes, there are people in a far worse position than me. I need to be grateful even when the nurses informed me “It’s going to get worse.”

Next week I’m back in the classroom attending lectures. I’ve chosen to return to my normal routine. Normalise the cancer. Go back to pretending everything is fine despite the way I look. I admit, I am a little vain. I loved my beard. Staring back at a face half covered in blisters and seeping wounds packs a helluva punch to one’s confidence.

I’m not even sure I’ll make it through the day. Nanna naps have become my lifeline.

Thank you everyone for your support and kind words.

Next week…The Seagull Cafe.