SF, Pt.25. Weybridge.

I just had a Skype call from the editor. Not happy. She seems to think we’re on dangerous ground. It’s starting to read like one of Chuck Woww’s Bangkok novels she says. Not that she’s read any of course but she knows the kind of thing. It’s Arthur she says. Sex tourism. Upsets women readers.

‘Not enough Dick?’ I ask.

‘Hmmm, it’s not that. I think we need more Simon.’

More Simon she says. Do I have to do everything? As if I can change my thought patterns just like that. Also I don’t quite see how it advances the narrative but there is no arguing with Samantha. She holds all the cards. In fact she has a whole arsenal of clichés at her fingertips and she won’t hesitate to use them. Resistance is futile. She knows every trick in the book. There are no flies on her.

So here’s Simon, late Sixties, arriving at his friend John Dunbar’s place on Bentinck Street, W.1. Lennon is there and someone called Magic Alex. Greek bloke. He seems to have worked his way into the inner circle somehow. I don’t like him at all. They are looking at some kind of machine that is supposed to resurrect dead pharaohs or something. Sounds a bit silly. I just listen. John asks me if I’ve got my car. I say yes. They say they are going out to Weybridge to drop some acid. Come along if you like. The extra car will come in handy. Why not? It will be nice to get out of town. Unwind a bit. Find out what’s really goings on at Weybridge.

The Alex creature disappears which is nice. It’s my first time at Lennon’s house. In the sunroom, safe as milk, he says, ‘Don’t look so worried Simon.’
‘Do I? Sorry. I just don’t know. I suppose I was expecting something more….’
‘Glamorous?’
‘Something like that. Here you are at home doing the same things I do. Watching TV, drinking tea…’
‘Picking me nose. I’m just a bloody scouser you know.’
‘I’m not exactly landed gentry myself. Middle class small town Sussex. Long way from Memphis.’
‘Make some brass and move South. That’s my advice lad.’
‘You do the accent very well.’
‘Thanks. It’s all part of the act. So Mr. Dunbar did you bring the stuff?’
They intend to drop some acid. I decide to pass. I have to drive back into town for one thing. I don’t want to spoil the fun for another. It’s standard acid etiquette. Mind games are to be avoided at all costs during acid trips. Especially this one. World peace could be at stake. Funny thing is I don’t feel like a hanger-on at all. That Morrison article in Rolling Stone has given me some clout. I need a pee.

When I come back they’re raving.
‘Flashbacks is it? I can do those. Remember walking to school in the rain?’
‘Dead wet leaves.’
‘Fog. Woodbines behind the bike-sheds.’
‘Barbers selling photographs.’

Fog? Wet leaves? Bugger that. Time for a walk. I find Cynthia and another woman in the kitchen cutting up onions. A very domestic scene and quite a contrast to the other goings on. Cynthia says hello. ‘You aren’t indulging today Simon?’
‘Not today.’ I say. She knows very well what the Johns are up to in the sunroom. I’m never quite sure where I stand with Cynthia. She’s so bloody wholesome. And judgmental. It’s not hard to see his problem. I mutter a few pleasantries but no cup of tea is forthcoming so I wander outside onto the terrace.

Terry is in the garage rolling a joint. We stare at the famous Rolls together. Rebellious? Ostentatious? I can’t decide. I suppose I should feel privileged to be here. Thousands of people would. But I’m starting to wonder why I came. Lennon seems bored. Fed up with pop lyrics, verse, chorus, middle eight. The Rolls offers no great insight. It probably seemed like a groovy idea at the time. Terry doesn’t care one way or the other. Just another motor. So I wander around a bit more. It’s nice enough. Big mock Tudor house. Shrubs, flowerbeds. All very English. But I don’t feel a lot of energy here. More like inertia. I’ve shelved any ideas of an interview by this point and I’ve got no camera, which is probably just as well. Out on the verandah a small boy is trying to fix a bike.

This must be Julian. I offer to help. Turns out the saddle is loose and the gear cable needs some adjustment. Easily fixed. Otherwise nothing much was accomplished. Driving back to London, beneath Surrey’s blue suburban skies, I only partially listen to Dunbar solving the secrets of the universe.