Dementia et Furor

DEMENTIA et FUROR

One evening in December we went to St George’s, Hanover Square, in Mayfair for a carol service in aid of Dementia UK. The church was grand early C18, the small choir excellent and the congregation mainly well-heeled and middle aged (the two categories largely but not entirely overlapping).

Unlike many “social” charity events, there  was not a huge gap between the circumstances of the givers and those of the beneficiaries. There was probably no one there who isn’t, or won’t be, or hasn’t been affected by the disease in one capacity or another.

Sally Magnusson, who has written about the suffering of her mother, spoke. She said that, whilst the progress of dementia is unutterably saddening, one should not be frightened that the loved one who has the disease is going to be irretrievably lost as the person she or he once was. There is always a flickering flame, however tiny, of a self which responds to care and love. (Is that true?)

After the service, the evening continued agreeably with a supper party at the home of the friends who had invited us to the carols. Somewhere near 11pm we caught a taxi for the journey back across north London.

The cabby was slight, quiet man. We debated the route (was Camden town to be avoided?) but finally found ourselves on Adelaide  Road  in Chalk Farm, crawling towards the traffic lights by the Tube station.

Just before the station there is a Zebra crossing in two sections, divided by a traffic island. Our taxi came to stop, in traffic, on the northern section.

A second later, a short wiry man was at the cabby’s window, shouting: “ You fucking give way on a crossing!..You fucking give way on a crossing!..”

I was on the other side of the cab, and for a moment thought that our driver had nudged across the crossing when the man was already on it. But it seems that he had come forward from the central reservation to be baulked by the queuing cab.

No matter. The man was in a fury. He shouted at the driver: “Get out!” and pulled at the door handle, which the driver had swiftly locked. His fury escalated. He kicked the cab. Then, suddenly, he exploded in a flurry of punches against the driver’s window, all the while shouting variants of “get out” and “you fucking give way”.

The punches were delivered ferociously, with bare fists, at the level of the driver’s head. We could see the window buckle, but not break. The poor driver sat inches away from this assault.

We were locked in the passenger cabin. It was like being in a Perspex shark cage witnessing an attack on a twinned cage. We felt horror and helplessness.

The man then moved to the front of the cab (still stationary), where he stood with his arms spread out in a “stop” gesture. I wondered whether he was going to attack the windscreen. But what happened next was more shocking than what had already occurred. He came back to the driver’s window, still shouting. Then, suddenly, he drove his forehead hard against the glass with a horrid thump. Again, the glass flexed, but held.

The man must have grievously hurt both fist and head. He gave no sign of pain; but now finally lurched off. The taxi was released by a green traffic light and moved away.

Our cabby was in a state of shock. So too, but obviously to a lesser extent, were we. After a few hundred metres he pulled over and said he could not continue with our fare.

Two sides of  “madness”  were encountered that evening: dementia, where one’s senses take slow but inevitable leave of one; and Furor (in the Latin) where one takes leave of one’s senses.

Sometimes, in classical mythology, the Gods caused Furor. In Chalk Farm, it is likely other substances.

The next day I checked the Highway Code. It says that, in queuing  traffic, a vehicle should leave a crossing clear, which our cab did not do. So the furious assailant, intent on causing grievous bodily harm, had a little bit of right on his side.

December 2014