What keeps us alive

A friend called me, this morning, at 0700 BST sharp. Having been up for two hours already I was all there, alert – no problem; call me at 0300 in the morning and I am usually not short of words either.

However, how do you have and hold a half way sensible conversation with a man who is semi-conscious and basically doesn’t care “what” you say, as long as you say something? I was tempted to fall mute. Still, friends’ needs must – and, NO, I am not a social worker or a prostitute. (By way of adding to subject in hand: My oldest, bestest, sternest, most beloved and critical friend asked me a couple of nights ago whether I am in danger of shaping up into one of those women with a Florence Nightingale complex – whatever that is. I tried to convince him that I am not; but, in truth, once someone has glued themself to my heart, to extricate him/her is more difficult than shedding a tapeworm.)

Anyway, back to this morning and that man in dire need of human contact: Running out of subjects – I asked whether he had ever broken anything. Yes, he said, his heart – at least twice. I didn’t want to be pedantic and remind him that we can’t break our hearts; hearts get broken by others.

It reminded me of a recent little essay of mine where I ask why the heart (the motor in our chest) is depicted in the shape of a heart – you know, that perfect symmetrical shape with the little bottom/chest cleavage in the middle. The muscle that keeps us alive doesn’t look anything like it.

What sparked the essay? Felix had a bag of Walker’s crisps the other week (Salt and Vinegar flavour) when he came across a heart shaped one – he didn’t munch it but donated it to me, in the name of art and creativity. As crisp hearts go it’s almost perfect – a tiny little burn on the right hand side. I shall frame it.

U