Clive Waring has one of the worst cases of amnesia in the world. I know it's like being dead now. Day and night the same, blank. No difference between dreams and anything like that, no senses at all.
The brain has been totally inactive. No dreams and no thoughts of any kind, whatever. Clive was a renowned conductor living in London.
when he was struck down by a virus in 1985. Parts of his brain were completely destroyed, including his memory. However, his ability to play music is unaffected. Do you feel different when you play music? I've never heard a note since I've been young.
I don't know what it's like to play music. I'm very unconscious. You played us some music about two minutes ago.
Not known to me. I've never heard a note again. Clive's case became known to millions when a television documentary was made about him in 1986. Alone and confused in hospital, without his memory, the only person he recognised was his wife, Deborah. What's been wrong?
Can you just tell me what the illness has been? I really can't get through this. I'm actually conscious now for the first time.
I just want to find out what the bloody hell they've been doing and what's been wrong with me. Because I have no fucking clue. I've never seen anyone at all.
20 years later, Clive only has a seven second memory before his mind goes blank. What has life been like for Clive and his family? Do you know that we're making a film about you? No, I didn't. No, that's news to me.
You're being filmed for a television programme. Oh no! Ooh, I thought I'd be posh, do I? Off a cross. Because you're very famous.
Oh, likely story. You're full of jokes, aren't you? Are you two laughing as well?
About 20 years ago, a film was made about you. Oh, no. Just after you became ill, called A Prisoner of Consciousness. And 20 years on, we're making a new film about you.
Because millions of people watched the film and wanted to know how you were. Good heavens. So millions of people know you.
How embarrassing! They know too much about me now, don't they? We've been coming to see you for several weeks.
I see. Are you paid to come here? Thankfully we are.
Clive is 67 and lives in a brain injury unit where he's under constant supervision. His wife, Deborah, lives 85 miles away in Reading. His illness has made it impossible for them to live together for 20 years.
MUSIC PLAYS If Clive went out of the front door unsupervised... MUSIC CONTINUES unaccompanied, he would have... it would be like being separated from a spaceship.
It would be like if you were spacewalking and the rope broke, he would have no way of getting back, ever. Does Clive... Does he know his name?
Yes. Does he know how old he is? No. Does he know where you live? No.
No idea. Does he know your job? No. No idea. Does he know the day of the week?
No. Does he know the date? No.
Can he read a book? No, because he can't remember the sentence before last. Can he watch a film?
No. He'll watch the rugby or he'll watch the cricket. He won't know who's playing or what the score is, but each stroke, each try, is satisfying for him to watch.
Clive now has islands of memory. Just as we can ride a bike or drive a car without remembering how we were taught, Clive can play and respond to music because his innate musical abilities are still there and weren't totally destroyed by the virus. Deborah visits Clive on average once a month.
What sort of man is he? Passionate, very loving, funny, very, very comical. And... He's very, very self-effacing. You know, he doesn't want to be a nuisance to anyone.
He often apologises to me and says, I must have been such a nuisance to you, I'm so sorry. I mean... They told me you were arriving. Welcome to us. He knows me.
He might not remember anything about me. But he knows me, he knows what I'm like. And we're still very much a team. I mean, it sounds odd that we see so little of each other, but we're very much a team.
Come on. No hanging around on the other side of the room. Thank you, darling.
What does it mean to you when Deborah comes? to visit? Heaven on earth arrives.
And what does it mean to you when Deborah can't come and visit? Well I don't know I've never been conscious since I've been here. I don't know what I've been thinking when she's not here.
I'd never seen her before either. You see me now? Yes. I've never seen any human beings since I've been here. You're the first four people I've seen in, what, 30 years?
And if you're unconscious, you don't like it much, do you? What does being unconscious mean? Same as death. No difference between day and night, no thoughts at all.
Day and night the same. And what does love mean, Mr Waring? Zero in tennis and everything in life. Good answer. Good answer.
That's all it's about, love, isn't it? Everything. Clive became ill before he and Deborah could start a family, but Clive has three children from his first marriage.
I thought of my father as a wonderful person. Mostly absent, because my parents split up when I was very young. But when I did see him, he was always very jolly, very giving, always laughing, and we all missed him. I've never dared to ask him what my name is. I don't know if that's my fear for him or my fear for myself.
But I've never asked him what my name is. He knows I'm his son and he'll always say, well, you should be this tall, because he left home when I was that tall. I can hear music in the distance. What music can you hear?
Since his illness, Clive has auditory hallucinations. What I struggle with the most is that the intellectual colossus that was my father is reduced to making word games out of card number plates. You know, it's just, there's a tiny fraction of him left now. 20 years ago Clive was a well-known musician, conductor and early music producer for Radio 3. He was a very charismatic conductor.
He was working in a field that was just cutting new ground all the time. He would transcribe from original manuscripts and recreate the music for a particular meal that the Duke of Bavaria had with his mother-in-law and what they wore and what they had to eat and this was the music and then he would make a radio program. Took all his energy, there wasn't much time to sleep, there were no weekends. He poured his whole being into his work.
Everybody used to say to him, Clive, slow down. He couldn't. No-one had any idea that Clive was about to become one of the most extreme cases of amnesia in the world.
Clive's descent into brain damage came frighteningly quickly one week in March 1985, when he came home from work looking flushed and feverish. On Saturday, his headache started. By Tuesday, he was no better, and he hadn't slept.
His temperature was 102. By Wednesday, he was very confused and couldn't remember Deborah's name. His temperature was 104. Doctors came and went, and Deborah left him sleeping. But when she came home, Clive had disappeared from their flat.
I called his name. There was no reply. I went into the bedroom. The bed was empty.
And I knew something terrible had happened. Over the next few hours, Deborah rang hospitals and police stations across London. No-one had seen Clive.
We sat and we sat and we sat. We sat and we sat. And then a man's voice, the phone rang and a man's voice said, Are you Mrs Waring?
Yes, we've got your husband. Thank God! Clive had gone out, fully dressed with his overcoat and a copy of the Times under his arm, hailed a cab. but couldn't remember where he lived he wanted to go home and he couldn't remember where he lived and the cab driver had dropped him at west hampshire police station and the police had chased him by his barclay card so we got there and we we took him home and clive went to walk past the gate and i stopped him and i said no it's here and he said oh is this where we live and i said yes and he didn't recognize the building two doctors made home visits and concluded that Clive was suffering from a severe bout of flu that was doing the rounds in North London. But the Friday morning he wasn't answering me and I picked up one of his arms and it was floppy.
So I rang the doctor again. I said, he's gone floppy, he's gone floppy, get here now. And the doctor came, took one look at Clive and dialed 999. Went out of the front door, walked down the stairs and as he turned the landing he said, this is the strangest case I've ever seen. We got to the hospital and I just remember going through these clear plastic rubber doors, they were like a valve and as those doors flapped shut behind us, you know, it was just like...
our life as we knew it was over. Once Clive was inside St Mary's Hospital, the doctors fought to halt his fever and desperately conducted tests. They realised that Clive's brain was being attacked by the herpes simplex, or cold sore virus.
Occasionally, this virus crosses the blood-brain barrier and gets into the brain. Nobody knows why or how, incredibly rare, it happens. It's a one in a million chance that it's going to happen. And it caused an inflammation of the brain, which was called encephalitis.
From what the doctors said... About how bad the temperature had been and how ill he'd been, I was very concerned that he wasn't going to live. I was fairly convinced that I'd come to see my dad die. And then he didn't.
Clive was given a new drug called acyclovir. It saved his life, but came too late to prevent brain damage. The virus had destroyed Clive's hippocampus, an area of the brain crucial for memory and learning, leaving him with dense amnesia. How many years have I been ill? About 20. About 20. Can you imagine just right to have one night 20 years long with no dream?
That's what it's been like. Just like death. No difference between day and night, no thoughts at all. In that sense, it's been totally painless. Which is not something which is very desirable, really, is it?
Because it's precisely like death. If you have no senses of pain, you have no... I don't have a sense of any kind of working either.
I don't remember sitting down on this chair, for example, or the settee as it is. That was unknown to me. I've never seen a human being since I've been there.
That's the first photograph I've seen of anybody. And who is that photograph? It's one of my sons.
I can't remember his name. It's gone now. Last time I knew him, he was still at school. That's how many years it's been. A few years before, he would have died from it.
And a few years later, they might have spotted it quicker, or maybe a different doctor might have spotted it quicker or whatever. So it was just on the cusp of that change, and he suffered for that, I think. In my own mind, it was the question of, is it right that he's been ill for so many days and how much damage has been done to his brain in that time and whether it was the right thing to do? right thing or the wrong thing that he was treated and everybody fought for him as much as they did. Clive remained at St Mary's Paddington for seven years.
There was nowhere else suitable for him to go. His mood swung from euphoria to sadness within weeks and confusion and despair set in. He was in severe shock, so he was just crying all the time.
You'd come in and you'd say,''Oh, hi, I'm your son.''''You're my son, I don't recognise you.''And then he'd be crying again and you were just stuck in that loop for months. I said,''Clive, can you tell me why you're crying? ''And he said,''No.''And I handed him a little notepad and a pen and I said,''Can you write it?
''I said,''Just write quickly. Why are you crying? ''And he wrote...
I am completely incapable of thinking. These messages were recorded on Deborah's answer phone. Minutes after she'd left him, Deborah visited Clive daily, but he couldn't remember her being there.
I don't care how late it is, come to me at midnight or one o'clock in the morning, I don't mind. I just love you and I want you to come as soon as you can, please, darling. Take care, I love you. I haven't seen you yet and I want to.
Please come, darling. Bye bye. I've let myself in. First time I've seen a human being. Every moment for Clive is the first moment because the amnesia is rubbing everything out immediately after it happens.
Not only does he not remember anything that's happened to him since he was ill, he doesn't remember... anything that's ever happened to him in the whole of his life. He knows about things. He knows that he worked for the BBC.
But he does not have any event in his mind that he can bring to his mind's eye. He knows that we are married. He does not remember the wedding. Where's your diary, Mr Waring?
No idea. I've never seen it. It says 7.16am, first act.
Well, I don't remember that, so what was I going to do? First diary entry I've made consciously. Clive keeps a diary every day and has done for 20 years in an effort to make sense of his life.
He writes multiple entries recording his last conscious moment. He would look at his watch to see what time was this momentous event occurring of first consciousness. And so he would write down, 10.06 awake first time. And then have the same sensation and put 10.07.
Awake first time, truly awake first time. Ignore the last entry. Now I'm awake. This is the first real awakeness.
And so the diaries are line by line a succession of astonished awakenings. That's 1990 when he'd been suffering amnesia for just five years. And this is the effect on him.
Seven years on, but you can see that he's by no means resolved his anguish. By no means. He writes the time now in big, in a big hand.
And a tick, a tick to say, yes, that's authentic, I wrote that, it's authentic, that's definitely me awake. He has to then cross through the previous ticks and do a new tick with a circle around it to say this is the real one. and that wasn't the real one next time he comes back and so on so there's a constant desperate series of scrubbing out all the previous entries and saying now i'm awake now i'm awake and the pencil just becomes blurred and it goes on and it's so thick the pencil it's almost as if he's using the pencil to dig himself back into time, to try to fix himself in a continuum, to have more than one moment at a time. But he never can. People's entries in the diary are rubbish.
What does that mean? I've no idea. Did you write that?
I've no conscious knowledge of it at all, no. I'm sharing it with you now for the first time. But is it your handwriting? Yes, it is.
But I know nothing about it at all. So how do you think it got there? I don't know. I presume the doctor don't know. But you must have...
No, I haven't. I haven't seen the book. I haven't read the book at all till now.
No, I'm... all I've said... No, that's mean.
That means I haven't seen it. I have no knowledge of it at all. That's all.
There's no knowledge of that book at all. It's entirely new to me. But you've put... who would put that apart from you?
I don't know, but no... no... Oh, for heaven's sake, use your intelligence, for heaven's sake. I haven't read the bloody thing. Well, use your intelligence.
The doctors don't know why Clive's aggressive outbursts have gradually stopped. Have you written in your diary today? Sorry?
Have you written in your diary today? I've never seen a diary since I've been here. I don't know. No idea what's there. That's time to go.
That's at least an hour out of date. An hour and three minutes out of date. Yeah, first time I've seen my writing. First time I've seen my room, first time I've seen human beings.
Never had a dream or a thought, day and night the same. They're thoughts of any kind. It says you're here.
Is that you? She all here, says, coffee drinking at three minutes past ten. That was unknown to me.
I'd never seen anyone except two or three people. Two men and one lady. Clive's condition was hard for Deborah to bear.
You asked me when did I decide to divorce him and when did I decide to leave. It wasn't really a decision, it was an imperative. There was no way any human being could continue in that. We had the same dialogue in a loop tape, repeated verbatim, with the same inflection, the same tone of voice, the same expression on the face, for, well, nine...
the whole nine years until I left, and we were still having that conversation as I was backing out of the room. Clive became ill and hospitalised only 18 months after marrying Deborah. Three years after the virus attacked his brain, the strain on their lives was beginning to show. It's like being a wife and a widow simultaneously. I lost Clive, or most of Clive, three years ago because without consciousness he's in many senses dead.
To ease her pain, Deborah campaigned for seven years to find Clive a secure and permanent home with the round-the-clock care that he needed. In 1992, he was finally moved to a new specialist brain unit outside London. Deborah's mission was accomplished. But she had exhausted herself and Clive was increasingly having fits in her presence.
With no hope of living together again, Deborah divorced Clive and flew to America. I was in my mid-30s. I wanted kids.
I didn't want to be on my own all the time. It was very lonely and I thought maybe having a relationship with somebody else and having kids would help to heal the pain. I rang him up to say, hello darling, I've arrived.
Although of course he didn't know I'd left because he didn't know I'd ever been there. And it didn't really make any difference where I was. It didn't matter whether I was in London or New York or Timbuktu. I tended to fall for just completely impossible people who are all artists of some kind.
And as soon as I became close to anybody and had conversations with them, you know, the relationship just... Dissolve because they weren't Clive basically. I was looking for Clive, I guess. Did he ever ask you when you were coming home?
No. Did he ever ask you what you were doing? No.
He showed no curiosity. He just wanted to let me know that he was awake. He'd say, yeah, he'd say, when are you coming? And I'd say, as soon as I can. And then he'd say, oh, please come at the speed of light.
Come at the speed of light. Come by helicopter. In 1996, Deborah had to make a choice.
Whether to remain in America and apply for permanent residency and a green card. She returned to the UK, drawn back to Clive. She settled in Nottingham, working for the brain injury charity Headway. Deborah had come full circle.
And I came back still not knowing how to live. Still with that huge emptiness, a great sucking emptiness inside that could never be filled. Still with a sense of needing to go home but not have, you know, where's home?
Because home was where he was. but I couldn't be with him. I was just going around in ever decreasing circles.
It was the same, it was just more of the same. I'd reached really the end of my tether and I rang a friend and I asked her to pray for me. She was the only Christian I knew and as she was whispering away to God, I just felt this... extraordinary power coming into me.
And I knew that God was in my room. I just had this incredible sense that I was really, really loved. I mean, so loved. And that emptiness that I had been trying to fill all those years with relationships, with food, with alcohol, I was filled.
That emptiness was gone. Clive is visiting St Ethelreda's church in London for the first time since he recorded a concert there in 1982. The two of them are now living together in London. It's amazing to have the acoustic of the churches.
It's quite unlike that of a concert hall. Yes, yes. There's lots of echoes and long reverberation. It's very special in that way.
Listen. See how quiet it is. I can hear some music in the distance. I remember last time we were here, you were conducting the Lasses Requiem.
Was I? And it was for the Lasses, the international Lasses Festival that you put on and you came in here. I remember here and none of the pews were here and you used the whole building.
It was far from a concert, it was actually a celebration of the Mass as if Lasses had just died. It was extraordinary and it was so moving that there were people here who were crying and it was broadcast live. ...to five countries and you were directing it and it was so moving, it was so moving that everyone was in tears. That's how good a musical director you were, it was just live.
And you gave the audience, whether they were sitting at home listening to the radio or whether they were walking around here in the dark with candlelight flickering, you gave them... an experience of something deep and profound and spiritual and they went away after your concerts and they were never the same again. You did, darling.
I'm amazed you're going to say that. I can't think that. You were marvellous.
You still are marvellous. Clever car driver, double CD, fine wearing king. Extremely pleasant garage that came from.
Clive makes phrases out of the letters on car number plates as they flash past. The great king of Kenya. Two double Ks, it's a rare sight. Thank you my love.
Cheers. Cheers. Guess what my job is?
Head of the United Nations? No. Head of the British Empire? Yes. PR?
PR! Wow! That's amazing.
Yeah, I do. That's very clever. Well done, darling.
I'll give you a kiss. Thank you. Cheers. You astound me sometimes.
You take my breath away. I know that you didn't lose your breath. You've got enough to stop breathing now. Yeah, I will.
Until God tells me to. Do you know what I do for a living? You earn money.
Yeah. What do you think my job is? Running the United Nations.
Really, what do you think it is? Guess. Head of the United... No, British Empire. Guess.
What can you see me doing? Being a film star. No, really? I don't know.
PR, public relations. Oh, I see. Well done.
That's an exciting life, though, isn't it? Ooh! Notre Dame's the same, really. They're always different, aren't they?
Deborah renewed her marriage vows with Clive three years ago, although they'll always have to live apart. What does this house mean to you? The opposite of walking in the open air.
A necessity for life. This house? What is this house? I've never seen it before.
What does this place mean to you? I don't know. It doesn't mean anything. I've never seen it before.
Hello? How low is heaven, though? Hello is very hello.
It's not familiar, then? I've never seen it before. I've never seen a human being since I was young.
Where do you think it is? No idea. Guess. Guess where it might be.
It could be anywhere from Scotland to Cornwall. Do you think there's anyone that... Do you think you've ever been here before? No. There's my initials backwards, WDC.
Shall we go in? Yes please. What do you think we'll find when we get in? Alcohol. Let's hope, eh?
Champagne I want, maybe. What do you think life's been like for your father? Hell, I can't imagine anything worse. Must be really frightening. To be constantly waking up to something that you don't recognise.
You know, every seven seconds or however long that he can remember anything for, to sort of turn around and, where am I? And you do it again and you don't know where you are. I can't imagine anything more frightening. It must be like a nightmare. It really must.
Where would you like to go? Best pub in the country. If you could go anywhere, where would you like to go?
No idea. Well, I'm going to take you home. Oh, I see.
Oh, that's my horse, yes. Do you know where home is? No. Yes.
Yesterday. Home is That's not a bad answer actually. Home is yesterday, that's true. And home is also next Tuesday.
Oh I see. And we're going... I live in Reading.
I see. You ever been to Reading? It looks like reading the way it's spelled, doesn't it?
Do you think you've ever been to Reading? Yes I have been there. Have you?
Yes. I've been to almost every city there. I suppose you could have gone when Howard was studying there.
Yeah. Yeah, I didn't know you'd ever been there. You've never mentioned Reading.
No, it's not a very interesting... I have a memory of going there. Not a very interesting place? No.
Can you name a town in Berkshire? No, I can't. I can't remember the geography. Do you know where I live? No.
Guess. No idea. Begins with R. No idea. Reading.
Oh, reading. Spelled wrong, it should be reading. EON941? You do? I can't remember the car.
Do you remember the phone number when you were a little boy? 3164. Yes. Remarkably, Clive can still recall details from his childhood, numbers embedded in his memory before he became ill.
There's another guest expected for lunch, Clive's youngest son Edmund, who has not seen his father for seven years. Things I used to do with my father always revolved around his work. It was, we'd be either going to see, going to places such as the British Museum for his research, or we'd be going to concert venues or recording venues.
We would often end up in churches, and he could walk into a church or a cathedral anywhere in Europe and read it like a book. He had a vast amount of knowledge, and that's just been wiped out. It's been a difficult time.
Seconds before Edmund's arrival, Deborah has primed Clive to expect him. Ah! Look who it is, darling.
Hello. Oh, well done. Back home? Yeah, very pleased to see a human being for the first time. I've never seen anyone since I've been here.
I brought some flowers for that lovely wife of yours. She's gorgeous. What does normality feel like to you now?
Great luxury and something that you know to be really valued and appreciated, it's very precious. I haven't had a family meal for 20 years. Deborah, what will this day mean to Clive? Nothing.
Nothing in his conscious memory. I mean, even while he's here, he doesn't know we're here. And when he's in the car, he won't know we've been here.
And he won't remember anything of it? No. He doesn't remember anything that's ever happened in the last 20 years, ever. What do you say to Clive when he gets confused and disorientated?
How do you deal with that? He's disoriented all the time. But it doesn't matter, because we don't need to be in time. We don't need to be in any particular place.
Because we're on another plane, Clive and I. We're in a world where there is no time. After four hours, Deborah has to take Clive back to the brain injury unit. Has it gone well?
I don't really want to answer that, thank you. Why is a giant pronounced the way it is? It should be Gient.
Sorry. That was very rude. That was really rude.
Um... I was just wondering how the day had been. Um... Well it's just so sad that it's not, you know, that's not our reality.
It's just so sad. Thank you. That was your shirt?
Yes ma'am. And why have you stayed away for seven years? It's too painful.
Was it easier to stay away? Oh yeah, yeah it was the easy way out. There didn't seem any point either, because he didn't remember.
He'd write it in his diary but he'd turn over the page and start writing the next day. Did he know who you were? More or less, sometimes he'd need a bit of prompting. He's got a quick mind.
If friends came up that he didn't recognise, and he understood that he was supposed to recognise these people, then he would greet them like long-lost friends, and he'd work on that. until somebody told him what he needed to know. So he was always a difficult man to fool, you know.
And those were the things, you know, that I was always pleased to see because I knew that his mind was working overtime and I knew that that was him. Having that is just a shadow. Today, Clive's sister Adele has come to see him. We used to take his children to see him, but he used to get very aggressive, he was very angry.
You know, there was one occasion when I went to see him on my own and he just, when I said who I was, he attacked me, almost, grabbed hold of me. aggressively and the staff came in and sort of calmed it down but he remembered me when I was younger he just said no you know you're too old That's what Adele looked like. How old do you think? You all were then? I was about ten or eleven. I think I'm about four there actually.
About four? Yeah, so you're about nine or ten there. Yeah. And how... Jeff looked enormous compared with us.
And he went off to sea when he was fifteen, didn't he? Yeah, so he went to the merchant navy. Yeah, but the ships travel really quite slowly compared with the aircraft, don't they? Oh, very slowly, yes. I used to go and visit him.
I found it just so difficult. Erm... And not easy to talk to him at all. My husband had got no connection with him.
with him found it much easier. He could talk about things that were totally irrelevant and quite happily carry on a conversation with him, but I have always found that extremely difficult thing to do. Oh, shame.
It's been lovely to see you. I must have seen you than see me. Yeah, but I can see you. All right. Oh, wonderful.
Bye-bye for now. All right. OK.
You stay there, Anon. Will you open the door? I will.
Are you going? I'm going. Do you remember Adele sitting next to you? No.
Can you remember what she was wearing? No. Never seen her. You're the first human beings I've seen, three of you. Two men and one lady, the first piece of people I've seen since I've been ill.
No difference between day and night, no thoughts at all, no dreams. Day and night, the same, blank. Precisely like death.
Is it very hard? No. It's actually the same as being dead, which is not difficult, is it?
To be dead is easy. You don't do anything at all. You can't do anything when you're dead. It's been the same. Exactly.
Do you miss your old life? Yes, but I've never been conscious to think that. So I've never been bored or upset.
Never been anything at all, exactly the same as death. No dreams even. Day and night the same. When you miss your old life, you say, yes, I miss my old life.
What do you miss? The fact that I was a musician. And in love.
He'll say things like, do you know what it's like? And that's really dangerous because if you, I actually did, I said yes once because I was just saying yes. That was disastrous. I've never said that again since.
Why? Because he says, you don't know what it's like. How do you know? Of course, he's right, isn't he? So there's no way you're going to know what it's like.
So he's still got some fight in him. Oh yeah, yeah, but that's the thing, probably three quarters of his personality is still there functioning normally. He will analyse what's happening, he'll say, well the doctors must be very interested in this, it's a very unusual case.
He worked it all out over and over again because he doesn't really remember that he worked it out an hour ago. Deborah's done more for dad than any other single person. And I very much doubt that I could have done that for him.
And that's hard. That's very hard. I think I'd have given up. When did you last see your father? I wouldn't like to say when it was because I really can't remember.
It's too hard. I wanted him to walk me down the aisle when I got married. And he couldn't.
I wanted him to know that I'd had his grandchildren. And he couldn't. So he's...
A lovely person. He's... he's Clive now. That's gone. Considering...
he's still one of the most amnesic people in the world, he's pretty peaceful. Considering he doesn't know where he is or what century it is or what time he got up that morning or that he's in a place where he lives, considering all of that, his state of mind is extraordinarily calm, happy, content and very much himself. He's himself. If you could do anything now, if you had free choice, what would you do next? Oh gin and tonic I think.
And a cigarette. And then of course waiting for time to elude and disappear and her arrival. There are 20-some muscles on each side of the face. So many, many possibilities of expression in the smile.
Some people say you smile with your eyes, and this is true. because with these minute changes on the wrinkles maybe have a soft smile or a big laugh so we use the face all the time when a painting