The medication makes me dozy so i sleep around twelve to sixteen hours a day in four-hour spurts. I have mastered the sleeping position and sleep so comfortably i do not need to move. i awake well rested and extremely cheerful.  today marks the end of the third day and i now switch my main medication, slow release oxycodone tens to tramadol, still supplementing it with paracetamol, fast acting oxycodone fives and nurofen.  this cocktail is very entertaining.  on the day after surgery i reported that there was graffiti all over the insides of my eyelids – in Latin.

Tonight, my favourite medical officer of health, the lovely motherly dr phyllis taylor, conflated with my grandmother, set me the important task of finding a lost document.  she had mislaid an application form to have one of her cows serviced by a bull in china.  i was sure i could find it in the records system, but i kept getting sidetracked by displacement activities.  in particular i found a pile of records that proved beyond any doubt that i was the stammering son of King George VI and rightful heir to the throne of the united kingdom and solomon islands.  this did not concern me much. i was more distressed over the fact that all the other health inspectors at the department of health were to receive queen’s service medals, but i was not on the honours list, despite the fact that it was i alone who solved the puzzle of legionnaires disease in compost.

in the meantime, phyllis found the form she needed in an unruly pile of papers on my desk, and went on to berate me in an Irish accent for not keeping my house tidy. She did not accept the excuse that i was unwell, and quite rightly pointed out that it had been untidy well before i stopped riding my motorcycle.

i caught a small duckling and carried it down to the pond to release it.  as i let it go it exploded in a yellow puff of fluff which settled into a bright blanket on the ground.  i picked it up and saw that it was a teeshirt that would be a perfect fit for my german shepherd, mach.  i called him over and put it on him. then we walked together down a flooded lane, me feeling such a joyous feeling of companionship that i knew at last what is wrong with my life.

About Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
This entry was posted in Autobiography, Health and wellness, History, Motorbikes, Philosophy, quandaries and Dilemmas and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Midnight

  1. Alan says:

    intense indeed glenn. not so bad when the dreams are cheerful. no bedwetting bob. the flood had some significance but a lot of the dream was fading even as i wrote it down. i probably captured less than half.


  2. Pilgrim33 says:

    Dreams are a problem-do you find that emotions are more intense in there?
    Presumably because our fore-brain is not applying the filters that allow us to survive in the (questionably) real world.


  3. Bob says:

    Walking down a flooded lane. Sounds like you have wet your bed. lol


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