[music playing]

Oh, darling, I didn't know you were here. Oh! What have you got there?

I've brought you some plates.

Oh, [inaudible] your kisses. Aren't ladies better than men?

[laughter]

I'd go along with that.

Would you like a Danish pastry?

That's a lovely idea.

Ah, would you like one?

I would, actually.

Oh, good.

[laughter]

We've got enough, too. That's nice.

Yes, one each. You want a bite?

Oh, thank you very much. They're rather large, aren't they?

And lady, sit.

Thank you.

Thank you.

This is enormous. [inaudible] whole [inaudible].

Well, have a serviette.

Oh, that's a good idea. Well, that sounds like a male name. Sir Viette who?

Serviette?

Yes, Sir— it starts with Sir.

Oh, Sir, yes.

One of the things that characterizes Clive's day is that he continually makes entries in his diary. Now I say makes entries in his diary rather than keeps a diary, because in fact, he's not keeping the diary. It is an inner compulsion to record the momentous event of waking up.

Because Clive's perception of his own condition is that because he has no memory whatsoever up to the current 10, 20 seconds— or maybe half a minute, depending on whether there's been distractors, any proactive interference— on the whole, his conscious working span memory is that current minute. So everything else behind the minute is blank. So everything until now is an unknown and is void.

So he uses the analogy of feeling as if he has just woken up. He says it's like just waking up for the first time. It's like just becoming conscious. It's as if I have been unconscious for however many years.

And because this is a continual state, unless he's actually engaged on a conversation or on playing Patience or Solitaire, which he does a lot, or on playing the piano, or on taking a walk, unless his mind is elsewhere engaged, that is his experience of life, which is, oh, it's as if I've just woken up. Oh, you're first person I've seen. Oh, I am— you know.

And it's this amazement that— I mean, can you imagine? What would it be like if you were unconscious and you just came to, but you didn't have a lot of people 'round your bed saying, oh, you've been unconscious. You're in hospital. You've just got people eating a meal or watching TV as if nothing has happened.

So he is habituated to that condition. He realizes that it's not surprising. But he uses that as an analogy for the experience of having no memory. It's as if I've just woken up.

And because for him it is momentous, he has to write it down. And he has to write it down on any available surface. If the diary is in front of him, he will write it down there. He will record the time. 10:50 AM, awake first time.

And then he looks at the previous century, which was 10:48 AM, awake first time, and he says, no, I wasn't awake then. That wasn't me. That wasn't proper awakeness. This is the first real awakeness. So he goes through the diary scoring out previous entries and underlining the current new entry, because this now is the real awakeness. All the previous awakenesses are unknown to me.

I have nothing to say about it. It's just like death.

Mm.

No thoughts of any kind. No dreams, no difference between day and night, no sight, no sound, no taste, no touch, no smell— exactly like death. No difference between day and night. No thoughts, nothing. No dreams, nothing at all.

Any question you have is answered I don't know. There's nothing to say. No dreams, no sight, no sound, no taste, no touch, no smell— nothing at all. No thoughts, nothing.

Since how long, though?

For years, that's all I know. Whole time I've been ill, nothing at all. No thoughts, nothing.

What's it like now?

I can see. First time. First time I've had any evidence I was alive.

And do you feel sort of normal now?

Yes. It's happened since I sat down here. I don't remember sitting down here.

You don't remember sitting down?

No, I don't see any human being. Now, I can see [inaudible] now.

No touch, no smell, nothing at all.

Do you know what happened to you?

No.

Any idea?

No idea. Just like death.

Do you know how long you've been like this?

No idea. Just seems like years, that's all.

When do— any idea what year you got ill?

No.

Have a guess.

Sometime in the '80s.

Sometime in the '80s, yes.

That's all I can say.

Early '80s? Mid '80s? Late '80s? Guess?

Middle '80s.

Middle '80s, yeah. That's correct. And do you know what year it is now?

No.

Have a guess.

Well, it's in the '90s, I suppose.

Yeah? How far in, would you say?

I couldn't— anything between '91 and '99. I don't know.

You've no feeling for that then?

No. No.

Well, it's now 1998. Any idea what month it is? Right, have a look out the window.

Oh, it looks like about March, April. March, April. February, March, [inaudible].

It is April. You got it the first time, yeah. So whose birthday is it next month?

Mine.

Yep.

And my brother.

Any idea how old you'll be?

93,000.

[laughter]

No. No?

How old do you think really?

21.

No. How old do you really think? How old do you feel?

22.

You feel 22? And how old do you think you are?

67.

Nope.

No?

Wait, you really think— do you really think you're 67?

Don't know. No idea what it is. Haven't a clue. Could be 90 or 100, all I'd know about it. No difference between day and night, no dreams, nothing at all.

Do you think your hair's grey or white?

No idea. I've never seen it.