Making lots of honey for the dear old queen

The walls are moving again, but I'm assured that this is a symptom of my condition. That's easy for them to say, of course.

Am I looking forward to having my head shaved? the nurse asked, giving my hand a little squeeze. I asked what she meant.

She laughed and thought I was pulling her leg, but was happy to explain, as if to the class dunce, that Professor-Doctor Nyfenfork had decided- as I well knew- to get the old hand-drill out (my words; hers were more considerate of my feelings, but the meaning was the same) and take a look inside my poor old bonce.

Everything's in there, she went on. Everything they need to know in order to- said without irony- help me.

Noticing that I was worried- my spoon paused uncertainly above my farola- she offered the reassurance that she, herself, had had her head opened by the good Doctor-Professor. More than once. She'd recommend it, she said. She felt better now; she felt better and better all the time. She was looking forward to the next time his attentions fell upon her shapely braincase. One girl- she was excited now, telling me this- had had her head completely removed- and maintained in a solution of certain chemicals for twenty-five minutes before being re-attached succesfully, with no unpleasant after-effects. She has to wear a scarf around her neck all the time, of course. Or a high collar. But that's all the rage these days, I'm told.