Thursday, 29 May 2014


“So… You thought one day all this would be yours?  And look at you now, without a stitch on: That is because you don’t OWN  a stitch, dear…

On second thoughts… Perhaps one day all this WILL be yours, my dear, if you want to look at it that way – but to work in, NOT own; in fact I am going to see to it you never OWN anything, ever again, not as long as you live.   

You, yourself on the other hand, are owned; in my eyes you are the property of this estate, just as much as this desk, the rug you are standing on, and the deer out in the chase…. 

No?  You’re shaking your head, like some dumb imbecile… and after all that time you spent in that clinic? And you still don’t think so?  Well, I do! 

 I’ll tell you what.  Do you want a couple of your little white pills – the ones the doctor prescribed?  Yes?  Of course you do – you’re nodding your head like an eager little puppy now...  Well, perhaps it’s high time we started getting our puppy properly housetrained – no time like the present, as I like to say!  Why don’t you just trot along to the kitchen, like a good little puppy; you’ll find a pretty, frilly lace pinafore and a lacy cap for your silly pretty little head waiting for you on one of the chairs there; pop them on like a good little soul and ask my housekeeper to start you off scrubbing out the scullery… And I’ll see what I can do about getting your pills for you… Oh!  And don’t forget to ask my housekeeper to give you half a dozen stripes across your bottom first – she knows where the cane is; tell her it is for dumb insolence…

Don’t you shake your head at me like that – don’t you dare!  You need to remember; it would be easy enough for me to pack you off back to that hospital again: a few more years in that place and your brain would be COMPLETELY reduced to blancmange.  Your mind would be so scrambled you’d NEVER get out – and I’d be happy enough to come visit from time to time, watch your progress, as I used to before, make sure they were doing a good job… You know… I’d get a kick out of that – I know I used to! 

I used to get a copy of your notes, too, your treatment records – you’ve no idea the pleasure I got from reading through those.  In my imagination I was there with you when you first began to stutter – I read about how that stutter was worsening, how eventually you could barely make yourself understood, how you would no longer make eye contact… And do you remember how the nurses wouldn’t wash you like they did the other patients, how they made you wear the same pyjamas day after day until they stunk?  That was my idea – I knew how particular you were over personal hygiene; I THOUGHT that would get to you.  And when for a while they put you in a straightjacket?  Why, yes!  That’s right!  THAT was my idea too – I asked them to. 

And those thrashings you received from the doctor’s cane over her desk in her office, and the hand spankings and slippering, and strappings you received over the nurse’s lap?  You’re surprised I should know about them, I can see it in your eyes – and you’re blushing, you’re embarrassed; how sweet! But I had nothing to do with that, you know – that was just a standard part of hospital discipline; certain mental hospitals have a special dispensation to employ corporal punishment to control intractable patients under certain circumstances, if they are being a danger to themselves or others or being otherwise disruptive.  Didn’t you know that?  Well, by constantly insisting that you were normal, that you’d been ‘tricked’ into being there, that you weren’t a mental patient you were deemed a ‘disruptive’ patient…. But I had someone there send me the pictures…. Oh!  Didn’t you know there were cameras there?  Oh yes! 

I watched you writhing about over the Ward Sister’s lap with your hospital issue pyjamas down around your ankles, begging and sobbing and promising to be a good mental patient while she brought the leather tawse down across your backside again and again.  I watched the doctor take off her white coat to give her more freedom of movement, in her high heels, that tight leather skirt of hers and that white satin blouse she always seemed to be wearing, slashing that thin bamboo cane in to your fat bottom, over and over and over; even with those polythene knickers they made you wear still in place – ugly bloomer-like things, I have to say – you couldn’t stand more than three strokes without screaming the place down; I think as I counted it the doctor gave you eighteen.  She had to ask a nurse in, to help hold you down as I recall.  I think it was the day she got you to sign the voluntary committal papers that made everything legit, and I think the nurse must have been a trainee or student nurse or something; she had on one of those polyester or whatever blue and white checkered pattern dresses with an elasticated white belt and one of those semi-transparent disposable plastic pinafore aprons over the top; funny how these little details stick in the mind; she had red hair pinned up in a tight bun with a white nurse’s cap decorated with two light blue bands around the top – I’m sure that means something, the two bands or stripes – and she didn’t look to be much older than you are now; how galling for you THAT must have been.  And then the doctor had you tell the nurse the reason you had been punished, and that it was because you were a silly delusional little thing who wouldn’t admit she was a mental patient.  

‘Delusional’, that was the word that was printed, sewn or embroidered or whatever on the top pocket of your pyjama jacket – your ‘diagnosis’ – where everybody could see it – AND it was displayed on a notice board above your bed, and at the head of your notes on the clipboard clipped to the bed’s foot rail; and no one would take any notice of anything you would say; what a shame, you poor thing; and all because of that label somebody had saddled you with…  So… Do you want to go back to all that?  You’re shaking your head… I’m so glad… Though I suppose I WILL be missing out on CERTAIN aspects of my enjoyment – and I know the doctor would be keen to have you back; she has all SORTS of things lined up.  Do you know, nobody has ever proved that the proverbial Chinese water torture thing actually works – from a scientific standpoint I mean – not all the way to its logical, some say mythical, conclusion anyway?  No?  Me neither!  Too unethical I suppose; still, I know it is something that fascinates our doctor friend    Who knows?  Oh well, let’s see how this new arrangement  of ours pans out first, hmm,?  So off you scurry, that’s it.  And I think you can ask my housekeeper to make it double – twelve strokes of the cane instead of the half-dozen I said earlier – for refusing the first time I sent you off…"


 Yes, it was another of those captions inspired by Tumblr reposts - see pic above... You really should check out my Tumblr account, or follow me or something.

Non-Victorian Chick asked about pain relief as regards my new knee - Hi there Non-Victorian Chick! - and was concerned I might be hallucinating spiders as a result of overindulging said pharmaceutical intervention.

No need to worry on THAT score!  Not now that I've read the warning.  As I said on the comment section:  Spiders?  I HATE spiders (see - I DO have a weakness, I'm not QUITE the superior being I'd like folk to perceive me as... err... and then there is the barely-controlled alcoholism… and the dyslexia… and the bouts of depression… 

...and the urge to eat vast quantities of veggie sausage rolls – lower fat pastry of course – despite the fact they make me ill coz I’m a bit wheat intolerant and they use gluten much more for the filling nowadays coz of the concern over GMO soya; I ate eight last night, and I’m paying the cost in sheets of bog roll… 

Oh god, it goes on and on… see what you’ve done?  I’m gonna have to go down the pub now and get pissed – which is what I did yesterday, first time since surgery)     

Five weeks out, and there is still stacks of pain… But I’m on paracetamol   and Voltarol cream, so no need for concern, young non-Victorian type person (and now booze too).  But, yeah, if they’d sent me packing with some nice morphine-based stuff I’d be abusing that too!

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