Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Stitches? It'll all be zippers, in the future.

The doctor insists that we've met before. Show me your face, then, is my reasonable enough request; one he avoids as deftly as ever, turning the subject to the parachute tanks the hospital's groundskeepers have been finding in some of the more unclassifiable trees that surround Saint Feasance's.

Admittedly, they are fascinating. I can see one or two of them from the window of my room. It's difficult to tell, from this distance, whether they're ours or theirs; no markings remain. Edges are blurred too; weathered. Branches weave in and out among the caterpillar tracks and even force open a hatch here and there.

Three or four-man crew, from the look of it. What was their mission? Certainly, if they're ours then they were dropped in the wrong place. And if they're theirs then all the histories of this part of the country pertaining to the war years will have to be amended.

Another thought. Although I have become accustomed to the staff of Saint Feasance's predilection for wearing tin helmets while on duty, am I imagining it or was the lady anaesthetist who sorted me out the last time but one wearing a personalised adaptation of a tankman's overalls, something she took in herself, made more suitable to the ladyshape?


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