The Clairvoyant Atheist

Bank Holiday Monday: May 27th 2013

It's not often I bother with a diary these days but while the whole hideous caper's still fresh in my mind ~ well, it went something like this:

'Look, I realise it's the Bank Holiday but I'm completely out of Thorazine and suffer from schizophrenic hallucinations. All I'm asking - '

'It's really beyond my control, Mr. Wright. Any prescriptions would have to be dealt with by your G.P. I can only suggest pursuing the matter at your nearest A & E clinic.'

'Okay, thanks.'

Except it's four miles away and the visions are already running rampant around my living room. Same old characters but you know what? I could almost enjoy their antics, on a good day, just not when I'm hungover at this hour of the morning. What's worse, the most vivid spectacle of all, "Gerald", I really, really loathe!'

'Wherever are we off to today then, sire?' the Georgian fop drawled.

I throw half a glass of stale cider through his face and he blinks before sneering and fluttering his starched cravat at me. I'd like to knock that stupid wig off and slap him around the room until lunchtime but he'd laugh at every swipe - and that laugh! You couldn't even call it effeminate: that would be an insult to womanhood and he's far too course to be labeled 'camp'.

What a price to pay for last night's drink and jamming session with my mate, Tony.

'Your keys are under those tawdry Franz Ferdinand CDs by the way,' Gerald whines.

'Shut-up! Just don't say ANYTHING until I get my head together you raving ponce!'

He affects offence and I look away but can just hear him rummaging for that blasted snuff box of his. It's happened before: if I'm really quick, I can physically interfere ...

A swift slap sends snuff flying across my flat.

'And you needn't pretend to worry about having to clean that lot up; it'll be gone by the time I get back here with my meds and you with it!'

Gerald looks almost genuinely upset. 'My dear Michael, can a fellow not pursue so harmless a pleasure as the contents of his snuff chest without a chum such as thee becoming cross as crabs?'

'I'm no "chum" of yours and you were only gearing yourself up for a sneezing session after I told you ...'

I stop to compose myself and regain possession of my own thoughts. I may not be able to ignore "Gerald" for now, but at least I can prevent myself from generating these type of discussions. I scour the entire room for my keys and realize that my subconscious has obviously reminded me of their location via that absurd mental projection.

I can tell this is going to be a really self-defeating day, as I look towards my coffee table where Gerald now sits, inspecting his fingernails while sitting on my CDs (and bloody keys).

Last night's cider has eroded much of my will to exist. Also, Gerald's such a bloody nuisance at the best of times - let alone when he gets in a strop - that call it what you like; I just want a quiet life, whatever the cost to my psychiatric dignity.

'Okay Gerald ... sorry I shouted. I'm just feeling really grotty this morning and as bright and amusing as your presence may be ... it's kinda killing me right now!'

'Oh, Michael my dear,' he condescends. 'It's hardly much fun for me either, having to atone for a life of debauchery by being earthbound - and not even earthbound enough to debauch my lingering years away! My snuff, and the sampling of drunken auras are among my few permitted pleasures, so, erm ... while you're about it, do step back and take leave of that filthy hangover; there's a good fellow.'