My Diary: The Psychiatrist On The Couch

I felt ill all night.‭ ‬I had been washed up on a tropical island and was surrounded by bespectacled manatees searching through their family records in the hope of finding a king‭ ‬-‭ ‬I said there was more chance of finding a god,‭ ‬at which point all the palm trees grew legs and walked off.‭ ‬Outside a number of people walked down the street whispering at the top of their voices‭; ‬the sound reverberated round my Saint Paul’s Cathedral headpiece.‭ ‬The ancient mammal duvet fell down as the dog skulked off to sit like a candle in an ice cave.‭ ‬June turned over before she got up.‭ ‬I heard the front door yawn as my De Falla body connected with the Sibelius floor.‭ ‬I bathed in iced tea and then took a transcontinental train journey to my study‭ ‬-‭ ‬I remembered the name of the singer just after the song had ended.


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