Sunday, April 30, 2006

Drums in the snooker room.

Wandering again in the root cellar of Saint Feasance's hospital. My slippers were not made for such excursions. My breath is grey and visible; my dressing gown no longer proof against the increeping damp-cold. I chanced upon a kettle, several galleries back, but as yet have found no tap from which to fill it, nor gas ring upon which to set it a-boiling. Also and alas, a quick dip into my pockets yields up the knowledge that I have forgotten to bring my usual spoonsful of tea, habitually kept safe in a re-used envelope. But not today.

Some of the tools observed covered in dust in certain of these lower galleries reveal that Saint Feasance's was once a hospital that admitted ladies as well as gentlemen.

Which starts me thinking that the other patient I've been hearing crashing around the premises in the small hours might not be a chap at all.

Certainly, whoever it is, it's safe to venture that they seem to attain a certain consummation from breaking things.


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