Porter learned that he could send waves of sensation up and down his limbs if he concentrated, but beyond that he was at a loss. His therapist had always recommended meditation as a method for relieving anxiety, but he had found it far too “spiritual” and emasculating. Besides, his gut got in the way, slumping onto the floor in a most repellent manner.Meditation was now mystical; this was about power, mystery and learning to control his impulses. Every day he counted the vertebrae from his neck to his tailbone, taking a breath with each number. Afterwards, he opened his eyes and every day, the cat was lying down a couple of steps away, waiting for him.The first weeks of his arrival at his new though remote home had been one of great anxiety for Porter. In the Waste, every day was a struggle to get out of that deathtrap, occupying his every moment with surviving. Zeb’s home was a grassy stretch of land with light breezes few distractions. With few diversions, Porter was stuck with his. The rhythm guitar man was in another bathroom having a piss and promptly leapt from the window into the swimming pool where he stayed, shivering until it was all over and watched as his two fifteen year old companions were put into the back of a police car to be reunited with their "caring" parents!Me? I was luckier than any of them, my two young friends had been on the balcony, amusing me by seeing who could piss the furthest and had seen the cars screeching to a halt outside.It took them just seconds to sweep up all their clothes, throw me a very damp and aromatic little g-string and scramble into a double wardrobe, by the time two huge coppers stamped into my room, it was in total darkness and I was snoring loudly.At first they'd been all mouth and trousers, very sure of them selves, they'd looked under the bed, in the wardrobes, the en suite bathroom, even in the massive trunk where I kept my stage clothes, but they found not a thing and eventually apologised, leaving me wondering.
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