Fossilised waste products of imagination

This morning I was dreaming of the consequences of acid erosion on the tails of Precambrian squirrels. I've no idea if such animals existed, but the effect was disastrous and, no doubt, has ramifications today. This dream may have been prompted by Bessy's discovery yesterday of fossils of creatures morally corrupted by a declining will to paint beautifully. I'm not sure how Bessy elucidated this but Margaret fears contamination and has insisted the fossils be put in quarantine. Bessy isn't too pleased.

Felix tells me there are men in the lighthouse below his bench who have been corrupted by their poor grasp of location. This has lead them to believe that they are in the centre of a gigantic slag heap somewhere in the north of England. I asked if it made much difference where they believed they were so long as they were where they are. Felix looked upset and said if they didn't believe they were down in the lighthouse, where did that leave him. The idea left me feeling a little queasy, so I didn't pursue it.

George ponders from time to time on the prehensile abilities of humans carrying themselves across gorges whilst discussing the rights and wrongs of moral degradation in the Outer Hebrides during the reign of King James I. He was at it again this morning when I arrived at the surgery and had hoisted himself above Mrs Farshorewithnosand who was waiting to make an appointment. I suggested to George that now might not be the time to contemplate matters Scottish but he looked down on us and said it was a terrible time and terrible times were always apt to be contemplated on Thursday mornings. I left him to it.

Cookie had wrapped the surgery in a paper made from the forgotten products of fruitful yet wasted imagination. It looked very pretty, but sad too.

I suppose there's something in beautiful things, or beautiful people, buried or forgotten. Perhaps in time they'll be dug up and thought of as fossils grasping, still, for expression.