Thursday, 7 June 2007

Long live Convolutionaries!

I had a dream last night in which we were living under the Vendemiaire. This morning - wondering why I had dreamt of French Jacobins and months with names as poetic as Vintage and Mist - I wandered into the surgery and saw that George was consulting a severe Victorian book on penitence. He tells me it is for my benefit - it explains why I am why I am. Needless to say, I didn't respond.

Cookie was rather sprightly and told me she had taken to eating sushi for breakfast. I asked if this was some form of penitence. She didn't respond.

According to the romantically short-lived revolutionary calendar, we are in the month of Prairie. Cookie clattered around the surgery with her wires stuck into her brain (I've noticed recently that her brain now plays tunes) and I drifted off into a meadow full of lowing cows and yellow buttercups singing a song of wild freedom.

George looked in to tell me the Judge was waiting for his appointment. I said I was roaming through my subconscious and the Judge would have to wait. One must, after all, make time to commit enough sin to make the penitence worthwhile. George fluttered his mascara-laden eyelids in disbelief and left knowing, no doubt, that he needed to do much more reading on my behalf.

In the meadow there was a fish carrying a revolver which was stuffed full of daisies. A rhino appeared with tinsel wrapped round its horn and asked where the nearest loo was. He had a black country accent and said he'd scalded his left buttock taking a bath. The fish was on his way to the South China Sea to make peace with his brother by carrying out a symbolic shooting-of-daisies ceremony. The rhino lowered his trousers and relieved himself behind a tree.

Cookie prods me and tells me George is in a huff. I tell her he needs a facial. She tells me he's already gone for one, leaving the reception desk empty. He's left a note explaining the dark route I have taken and that, for now, he has to abandon himself to his senses. I consult the judge who says he thinks George is a Convolutionary. Long live the Convolution, I say, and let's have a calendar with prosaic day names to go with it.

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