It’s exhausting hanging out at the hospital waiting for doctors to manhandle your nether regions. I know it is because on waking at a normal time this morning I turned over for a little more sleep and didn’t regain consciousness again until four o’clock in the afternoon. Fortunately the country I live in is having May Bank Holiday today so I didn’t miss anything.
Obviously I did miss the chance to dance around a Maypole and to sneak off into the undergrowth with fair maidens in celebration of Beltane, but I wasn’t going to do either of those things anyway. My lungs make any form of dancing tricky (a source of great sadness to someone for whom dancing is sometimes the only way of expression wordless emotion) and fair maidens have written sworn affidavits declaring me too old and vulgar looking for them to want to cop off with.
There is a curious disjointed feeling that comes with having slept throughout the day, as though reality has folded in at the edges and everything you experience before returning to bed is made of cloth and weirdness. Maybe I spiked my own dribble in my sleep? Maybe life is just a dream? Maybe I am a butterfly copying down the notes Zhuangzi is making on rice paper in order to impress the lady butterflies down at the Flying Insect nightclub?
Maybe it’s just as well nobody reads this crap.