THE LAST NIGHT OF THE FAIR.



 
As I debated adding ice & lemon to my evening Oramorph cocktail, I zoned-out of Pharmaceutical Heaven for a brief moment, and found myself in the hope-drenched waiting room of Free Will & Autonomy.

It was a very busy room.
Morrissey sat perched on a bar-stool.
He was crooning wistfully
 “A schoolgirl is denied.
She said ‘How quickly will I die
If I jump from the top of the parachutes?’......”

Glum Britain was gearing-up for a winter of malcontents and unpaid heating bills.

A small band of teenagers would be briefly saved by an ‘extra hour’ in bed soon.
The rest of the room would be responsible for ensuring that hour happened magically, by methodically at first, then frantically later, checking that the gadgets we rely upon so heavily had changed ‘automatically’ overnight.

And once the central heating had been adjusted along with the hot water, and the car dashboard clock had arrogantly refused to stop blinking, the first wave of crepuscular anxiety mellowed, to a deeper, more recognisable melancholy.

“A boy is stabbed and his money is grabbed

And the air hangs heavy like a dulling wine……..”

Several people left the room.

Those turning left headed for Toxic Positivity and an evening of ‘social’ doom scrolling, catching just a tiny glimpse of their former selves in the full length mirror in the corridor.

Those turning right headed straight for Mass Consumption, and bravely fought-off black dogs with six foot Toblerones and flickering fairy lights.

Those who remained in Free Will & Autonomy put on a brave face.
They did this every year.

It was important to recognise that tradition wasn’t for everyone, despite being exactly that.
It was a time of peace to some men, family war to others, and overall best intentions.
St.Julian was apposite when she said: “All will be well”.
And,
to a certain extent,
it would.

 “Scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen

This means you really love me”.

I sculled the Oramorph like a Wetherspoon's shot, and tumbled to the floor to resume downward-facing dog.

I was ready to plumb the murky depths of abject apathy and profound misery that I call Pharmaceutical Heaven.

Everyone and everything else could wait.

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