Opposites attract

January 29, 2017 at 11:11 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments
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Secure MRI for TATs*.

Paradoxically, the veiled concerns about electrical cords and plastic bags have me scouring my room for potential anchor points.

I imagine this is like feeling you’ve a bomb strapped on (even though you don’t) when airport guards approach.

In my study of the shower, I note that the newish curtain rail seems attached to the walls and ceiling by strong (but not too strong) rare earth [?] magnets.

The desire to test this theory is countered only by my fear that the rail may also be alarmed.

About 15 cm above the rail are plugged, serried holes that clearly bespeak a forebear.

Was this a renovation, or were even grimmer forces at work?

The shower head is cylindrical, but so angled and embedded that only a slim, slippery crescent protrudes.

Around it, eight tiles that don’t quite match the rest.

The taps look like recessed Alessi juicers, flushed with shiny steel.

I’m impressed that, while these taps couldn’t hold a loop of dental floss, they’re still easy to turn.

The lounge curtain rail, too, is fixed by magnets. I’m almost certain of it now.

This astonishing attention to detail makes my contrary mind determined to find a flaw.

A cheerless game of There’s Wally.

Eventually, I discern three ways to end myself should the occasion require.

Happily, it doesn’t.

I quietly alert staff to my discoveries,

lest they gain

currency.

* Twitchy Arty Types.

Pic by K. Kendall


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Whatever the amount, I’ll be very grateful indeed.


Much adieu

January 14, 2017 at 9:08 am | Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment
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Poor soundproofing, my nearness to the ward’s security portal  and my lack of headphones give me little option but to overhear all manner of farewells.

Here’s a particularly poignant one – modified to respect the parties, but intact in essence.

‘Goodbye, Darl.’

‘Do you really have to go?’

‘Yes; I’ve been here for ages.’

‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’

‘I really can’t.’

‘Please?’

‘Visiting hours are over, Darl.’

‘But can’t we go back to my room, just for a minute?’

‘No, Darl; we really can’t.’

‘But what about my slippers? Are you sure you brought them?’

‘I did, Darl; they’re in your case.’

‘Should we go back and check? Just to be sure?’

‘No, Darl; I definitely packed them. I know they’re in there.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes, Darl.’

‘Do you really have to go?’

‘Darl; yes. I really do. You … you really have to let me go, Darl.’

‘Do we love each other?’

‘Of course, Darl!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Darl; I’m sure. And now I really must go. Goodbye; Darl.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’

‘OK, Darl; goodbye. I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow. OK?’

The man exits and the portal reseals.

The woman remains.

Frozen in silence.

She’s there for so long that I fall asleep before

her footfalls

retrace the

hall.

Dischord

January 9, 2017 at 6:47 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments
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I get my device cords back.

Mobile, radio, laptop.

Of these, the last is most precious.

My Nokia dumb phone can go weeks without charging.

And my interest in radio has waned since the ‘summer series’ began endless reruns of last year’s worst bits.

Once was quite enough.

On admission, I was told the cords had to be ‘checked by an electrician’.

While this was surely for safety, the precise nature of the threat isn’t discussed.

A later survey of my room leads me to surmise that the cords’ potential lethality lies in  unorthodox use – not electrical integrity.

If this is true, I imagine holding strength is pivotal.

If so, they needn’t worry about me.

At my current weight, nothing short of a three-phase (or possibly undersea) power cable would suffice.

Then again, I’m told there are other patients in here who wish themselves terminal harm.

In which case,

the niceties of entering another’s room

probably don’t apply.

And so,

though my weak wires are deemed ‘harmless’,

I hide them well.

Postscript

On return from an accompanied outing, I’m asked to surrender all plastic bags (e.g. with better food and cleaner clothes).

I query this, then recall the movie House of Sand and Fog

and figure

fair call.

Shower scene

January 7, 2017 at 6:23 am | Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment
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My room is next to the ward’s security portal.

At 2:00 am, I wake to what sounds like agitated people making repeated efforts to get in, out (or possibly both).

My door has no internal lock, so I lie in fear – hoping not to get caught in the moment.

At length, the situation seems to resolve.

Shortly after which, my door handle turns.

I can only hope it’s the night nurse, so pretend to be asleep.

The door cracks open and I feel eyes upon me.

If I overact, I may appear dead – thus triggering entry and further examination.

It’s a nuanced role.

After silicone seconds, the door closes and I breathe again.

I remain sporadically alert for the next three hours.

On a happier note, the hot water’s back on.

A welcome relief.

Alas, the shower curtain doesn’t fully circumscribe the recess.

Either an intruder can see me from the toilet,

or I can see myself in the mirror.

I debate which is worse.

Then I put a bet each way by standing closer to the curtain, with peripheral eyes on the most likely lines of attack.

The bathroom door has an internal ‘lock’ – but this can be overridden from the other side by a key, a coin or even a stout thumbnail.

Also, the door’s hinge pins can be removed by hand.

That said, my shower concludes without incident.

But when I pull back the curtain, I’m dismayed.

The slope of the tiled floor has failed to deter water from most of the bathroom.

I must soak the bath mat to clean it up.

This means the grumpy towel woman (the others aren’t) may have to replace the mat mid-morning.

And last time she stormed out (doubtless with her own travails) she took all my positive vibes with her.

To curtail a repeat, I’d hoped to make the bath mat last the week.

So I set it with the wish

that it’ll dry

in time.

Postscript

I ask the day nurse about the night’s events.

She assures me only one person left the ward – at 11.30 pm – with no disturbance.

She suggests my proximity to the noisy security portal may have magnified things in my mind.

She seems genuine, and I want to believe her, but I’m reminded of a childhood riddle.

If she’s lying, I’m an acute observer, but may never get out of here.

If she’s truthing, I’m a great storyteller, but not ideally suited to the real world.

And so,

may never get out of here.


If you found this interesting or entertaining, you may like to:

Your smallest kindness will keep me going strong. With many thanks, Paul.


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