A Christmas retreat

Flaneur is not a title to be earned; perish the thought. Neither bestowed: it is where one steps free of meritocracies of all description. It is completely up to you if you wish to wrap yourself in the mantle. Flaneur is a philosophy, an approach to life that is there for the adoption thereof. A state of mind become a state of Grace.

Thus it is that I find myself at repose in the cardiac wing of a reputable Cornish hospital. As the solar pendulum swings back into action, and the protestants of all faiths fight for their right to work and shop and consume on Sunday, squeeze a few more productive days in after our extended Christmas weekend to finance the binge and desperate year-long commitments in its very opening seconds, I am lying back listening to music, being waited on hand, foot and heart. The year can swing on ahead of me;  I’ll give the sun a head start. The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. 

So how is this retreat facility? Well, remarkably good so far. I eschewed their exclusive pick up chauffeur service (how many of those dreadful stretch limos of conventional establishments wheel you in and out supine and disregard traffic lights in your priority passage? Even Silver Service required one to stand up and walk occasionally) for a beautifully sunny drive with a good friend through the greens, greys and golds of Kernow. Very nice. We booked in at a nearby ‘Care Facility’ and they phoned ahead to notify the hospital of our imminent arrival.

I was feeling a bit dicky by the time we arrived, so imagine my delight at finding a bed awaiting me (all mod cons - uppy downy stuff in all directions and wheels should we need to go anywhere - no walking here!) and efficient staff surrounding me to find out all about me and devise the perfect (laid back) program for my time here, after which they delighted in stacking me full of drugs. Flan-tastic! Injections, pills, sprays, you name it. I was down and out quicker than Huxley in Paris or London. The offer of opiates was very thoughtful, I felt, and made me feel quite wistful for our golden age, but the 21st century fare was in full effect at the time, and while I certainly don’t believe one can have too much of any good thing, flavours should be savoured, and I settle back to do so.

Rat poison would never have occurred to me as a passport to a good time, I freely admit, but then sushi, rump steak, truffles and aromatic pipe tobacco must all have had good marketing in their day. I believe it’s often a very mild effect, but personally I was in a dreamy haze for hours. The trinitrate sublingual spray was a stunner though; that kicked the trip off. No pussyfooting here! Slam, bang, no vision, no hearing, head down, valves open - welcome to your repose! Goodnight Vienna. The label should read “L’Hotel Repose welcomes you and invites you to lie back, relax and enjoy your stay! We would encourage you to avoid driving, operating heavy machinery or making plans of any sort. Thank you, and have a nice trip.”

I even dabbled with pure oxygen, to the tune of two four foot tanks of it. Not bad, but only a mild euphoric payback for the overall discomfort of the mask. Nothing further gained by dropping the third cylinder on my head, either, though this may not have been a planned delivery; more to do with attempting to squeeze an attractive girl into the lift with us. Laudable intentions, and flaneur in its own British ‘Carry On’ kind of way. Ding dong!

The whole point of this retreat is to do nothing. Inertia has its own momentum here. Idle pleasures such as dreaming, musing, reading, eating, watching the extraordinary skills of the highly qualified staff going about their business. Unlike those who profess to enjoy hard work because they can sit and watch it for hours, I must confess that I even prefer watching it in small doses, so I’ve spent much of my time on the dreaming, reading and laying doing nothing side of the bed. Nonetheless, exciting activities are on offer. So far I’ve had a photo taken of the inside of my torso - not your everyday retreat fare - a brief tour of the facility in a wheelchair (no walking!) and at the invitation of an attractive young lady went for a brief jim-jam jog on a treadmill wired up to all kinds of caboodle to provide absorbing and helpful information on the intimate workings of yours truly. Actually this turned out to be very brief indeed, as the package lost its lustre with the advent of the required activity; back to bed, more drugs, stick with what works.

As you will no doubt have surmised, traditional attractions such as massage, steam, sauna, swimming and ‘leisure’ sports and activities are rejected in favour of lethargy and drugs; think of it as a theme hotel. An essential one, though, in my most humble opinion; after all, where else can you travel to for this kind of experience? India? California? Not somewhere your chauffeur will get you to in minutes. It’s not home, but it’s close to it.

So what about the food? Well, it’s not bad, but hardly West End. Think the better end of school dinners. Again, it helps to think of it as a theme resort. I should mention that the girls all wear uniforms... Also that while the coffee is truly terrible - one might almost suspect them of using that foul instant stuff from jars - the tea is rather good in a hale, traditional way, and I was thoroughly charmed by the trifle, mince pies and clotted cream on the coronary ward menu, brought right to the bedside, naturally. No need to sit up, my dear.

Besides, half the fun of the time here is having one’s friends sneak in treasures from the outside world, as with any retreat. Some clever distraction and one stealth accomplice scored a chocolate bar and cheese and onion crisps from their very own shop on a corridor far away. Result! On the other side of the coin, one friend brought me fruit (yes, including grapes). Irony aside, I think one can take these themes too far.

On a more philosophical note, all this serves to remind that one Flans where one can. State of mind, state of Grace. Productivity and consumption are killing us and our world. Your bulging paycheck pays for the interest on our governments’ bad debts over decades, leaves some for some baubles and high pressure, well organised leisure designed to return you to work slightly more productive, and the rest is desperately thrown at fraudulent financiers in the hope of keeping a roof over your head. Yes, they are all fraudulent; if only you knew how mortgages really worked. We are truly killing ourselves to live. Time was, when slaves were housed and fed and given Sundays off. Work is the curse of the strolling classes.

So it occurs to me that perhaps the most heretical, rebellious thing to do is nothing. You cannot smash the system: you are the system. Why smash yourself? Sounds like work already. Why not just slow the fuck down? Find idle moments in the least likely places and stretch out a little; get comfortable. Less is more, people. Before you know it you’ll be enjoying it and thinking deeply heretical thoughts. Fellow flaneurs are already smiling and nodding, while readers uninitiated in the ways of the flan will be thinking this is all idealistic tosh that just doesn’t work in the ‘real’ world... aren’t you? Don’t give it another thought! After all, you don’t have time. And worry thyself not: I can’t be arsed to evangelise. Equally pointless protestant hard work, as far as I’m concerned. I write when I fancy about whatever I fancy. But I will say this: any nurse in my hotel wanting to pay somewhat over half their entire paycheck towards a 2 bed local flat, would need to stay alive for several hundred years, even if the interest never rose above 4%. Even with all the contraptions to prolong life in this establishment, I don’t see that happening, so how absurd do things have to get before this world begins to be ‘unreal’?

Ah - a goodnight cup of Ovaltine and some stolen chocolate. Perfect end to the day. Turned up the headphones, and quite randomly (iGod is the DJ) Journey sing “Be good to yourself (nobody else will)”, and the guitar swells to mask the chap in the bed opposite shouting “Hello!” with every breath. Must ask him tomorrow which drugs he recommends.

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Epilogue: Some flaneurs unaware of the intricate illusions of our present society may worry that they are financing my stay here - let me assure them they are not. When I was registered as a chattel of the state shortly after birth, a bond was created in my name. You have one too, I don’t doubt. UK PLC invested, borrowed and traded against my future worth to the nation, my likely productivity, tax revenue, and outside chance of inventing something very valuable - as they did with you too - and my stay here, in theory is billed to that fund.

I say in theory, because, of course, there’s no true allocation of funds, no transparency of accounting, no real accountability, in fact. Just great big xx accounts from which everyone double dips as long as there’s something in there. It’s a great way of hiding malpractice, fraud and incompetence. All you need is the keys to the account...

But don’t tell all the outraged anti-flaneurs out there. I love the idea of their fuming about supporting my ‘lifestyle’ and then busting their arses cramming themselves onto cattle trucks toward their horrid open plan cubicles to go and dutifully, desperately do it some more. It really isn’t my lifestyle they need to worry about...

Comments

[software developer]

That was inspiring,
Great information on the christmas retreat,
Anyway, thanks for the post

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