The Bucket and the Garden

She pisses in a bucket. She lives if you can call it that in a terraced house if you
can call it that, on a quiet suburban street somewhere in The Midlands. And she
pisses in a bucket. How is such a habit born? Let's examine what we know. She
is now in her early seventies, but you wouldn't think it to look at her; though
common sense suggests you would expect her to look older than her years. She
lives alone and has done so since the passing of her father many years ago. She
is someone you might describe as being 'not right in the head'. She talks to
herself. She talks to people who aren't visibly there. She rants and raves and
spits and swears and gets upset. She has short grey hair with white highlights but
how or by whom this hair is tended to we do not know. The hunch in her figure is
as permanent a fixture as the white foam enduring at the corners of her mouth.
She pushes a trolley in front of her as she attempts walking; probably to lean on
and to carry mostly pointless, miscellaneous items. It is not known if she ever
washes herself or her unfortunate clothing but you would guess that she does not
for she smells like the end of the world and all life as we know it. Although
uncomfortably (you would presume) overweight, she often visits the local chip
shop for her tea, which we gather usually consists of chips, a meat and potato pie
and gravy or mushy peas. This grease socked bundle of newspaper,
carbohydrates, questionable meat and salt-and-vinegar indeed has to be the
most useful item her trolley sees in its pitiful existence. She also has a fondness
for cakes and has been known to consume an entire pack of Mr. Kipling Angel
Slices in a single evening. But how did she get this way? How long has she been
this way? Was it a steady decline that allowed gravity to chip away at her well
being, slowly but surely forcing it downwards like a stream of urine trickling
determinedly and hopelessly into a bucket, or was it a sudden change like the
electricity supply to a pensioners home being cut off because of unpaid bills?

From what we know her father was not what so called decent people would call a
decent man. He drank heavily of course and did not exactly show much affection
for her. But can he be blamed for the piss bucket? Obviously, we will never know.
We do know that she was not encouraged by him to pursue any endeavor that
would ultimately lead to a life of happiness and stability, and we also know that
she would not have had this sort of encouragement via any other sources such as
school if you can call it that or the local community. It would not take the eyes of a
professional to surmise that she has some sort of mental disorder that was either
present at birth or grew like mould in her mind as time progressed. And such
disorders if not properly treated and controlled are surely likely to worsen over
time, like grime in a bath tub that is always left un-cleaned. And we all know how
apparently easy it can be for those with grime infested bath tubs to be blind to the
issue, and indeed we know how easy it would be to begin the cleaning process
should awareness be facilitated to occur.

She is known to all in the community. Sometimes this means taunting and
mocking and other times it simply means acknowledgment of her existence. It is
not known how she feels about her fame. She often asks passersby for help with
crossing the road or walking for a stretch and although she is more often than not
given this assistance, it is not what she really needs. What she really needs she
cannot ask for, like a beloved family pet that has become arthritic and needs to be
put down.

All the family she has left have practically disowned her and we can only
speculate on the motives for this. Perhaps the most obvious explanation is that
human beings in general are prone to disassociating themselves with the
members of their race that tend to piss in buckets and smell like the apocalypse.
There is however a woman in the local community who has resolved to if nothing
else be a friend to her. The Woman listens to her daily rants about local youths,
the weather that is too hot or too cold and the juicy gossip she has picked up on,
among other serious issues. The Woman takes the so called gifts she offers such
as the torn tabloids, the child's toy she found in the road and the elastic band she
no longer has any use for; The Woman takes these items with a smile and a
willingness to listen. She gives to The Woman allocations of her pension with
which she asks The Woman to purchase groceries at the expensive local shop
and pay various bills at the local post office. The Woman buys her presents for
her Birthdays and calls utility companies on her behalf. This is much of what she
needs but cannot ask for; some would say it can never be enough now.

The Woman provides her with an outlet through which to vent her somewhat
misunderstood musings, and this probably gives her the only sense of purpose
she has had in a long time, possibly ever. Perhaps it is possible for a life to be
sustained on the illusion of purpose alone. And for that matter perhaps a life of
purpose can be poisoned by illusions of a lack thereof. But who are we to
determine what a proper purpose should be? Who are we to judge and to pity?
By what standards are we measuring happiness? The world in which we live and
the world in which she lives are in fact worlds apart, and to try to understand how
she feels from day to day about her existence would be like a fish trying to
understand the feeling a bird has when it flies, or a slug trying to understand how
a child feels on its first day of school.

The Woman has two men that were once two children. Though her visiting The
Woman pre dates the birth of the children, the arrival of the sons was a sort of
setting in stone; the birth of an unstated fact that the unscheduled and often
intrusive visitations were to become a permanency. The two children were at
once a source of great affection for her. Her passion for their existence could be
rivaled only by that of a parent. She would ask The Woman about them
constantly: Where are they? Which friends are they with? They were feeling
poorly, are they better? She prayed for them. She delivered to them Birthday and
Christmas cards that contained a small amount of assorted change and the
handwriting of a P.D. sufferer at their worst; though she would be a very different
person if the malfunction in her brain limited its effects to her physical self. Maybe
it was this affection, or even love if we should be so bold, that urged her to spread