Where do you sleep when you've destroyed your own bed?

Well, I'll be a Dutchman

Woke up later on in another part of the hospital. Well, at least a projection of me did. Which opens up all sorts of curious avenues, I suppose. If I can project myself into the nurses' quarters (I know, I know) then where else might I shoot off to while what they're still referring to as my brain snoozes or otherwise passes a dozy hour?

And were they the real nurses' quarters? I mean to say- Might they have been a mere projection of the nurses' quarters? A summoning, if you like, from the silted floor of the sludgy grey trough labelled 'take a gander at this, chaps', half-remembered from something overheard when I was alive?

Or am I alive now?

Do dead men think about nurses buttoning their fronts?

No head to speak of

They're all around the bed. Of course they are. Where else would they be? I can hear the sea. I can hear the sea. That rattling again, though. I took it upon myself to apply a little oil (well, margarine) to the joints of this bed-thing they have me in and ended up with bits of it all over the place- lengths of tubing, mattress springs and pillow-insides. The staff were very kind in the matter. I'd missed my supper in the kerfuffle, so a couple of slices of toast and a brown betty-ful of nicely understewed tea were produced from somewhere, much to my grateful appreciation. I few things niggled, though, as I munched. Where was that smell of salt coming from? What sort of salad was this (on my toast, no less)? And- this plucked from the memory of my afternoon's unscrewing- why were the tubular support sections of the bed filled with sand?

That chap on the ceiling is gone, at least.

Twice round the lighthouse for £256,000,000.

Something with caterpillar tracks, fit for the crawl across the face of where foot has never stepped. Comfy seats. Well, as comfy as is reasonable. But you know it'll be the usual bucket seats. Looped straps along the bulkhead to hold onto in the event of a jolt. And you know there'll be plenty of those. And some boffin's variation on the Motorman's Friend, no doubt, for those little emergencies (I wonder what the ladies use?).

Doubtless they're already sketching the family saloon version, against the day when all this becomes as unremarkable as a trip to Blackpool or an inside lav.