by James Edwards-Smallbone
The psychiatrist paced down the seemingly endless grey corridor. Despite the best efforts of a team of decorators the relentless dinginess clung to the mental health centre (they were officially discouraged from using the ‘A’-word) like a leech, sucking away any last watery remnants of joy. He approached room 42 and lifted a medical chart from its hook on the bland wall, acknowledging the tired looking nurse with a tipping of his glasses.
Keys jingled in the lock like fairy bells as the nurse opened the door of the padded cell. An atmosphere of restful, sterile calm washed out over the psychiatrist and he entered, a reassuring professional smile pasted over his features.
“Miss Sycamore is here now?”
“Of course! You just have to know where to look, how to look.”
Glossop sighed inwardly but tried not to let it reach the surface. James was a difficult patient who clung to his delusions more firmly than most.
“We’ve been over this rather a lot, doctor,” the man added reproachfully, “it’s all there in the book if you’re still unclear.”
Glossop’s scowl could have iced over active volcanoes. He preferred biographies; at least the characters in those were real. “Come on,” he growled, “I’ve got Napoleon and Julius Caesar to see before lunch.”
“Who were you talking to?” The speaker chirped with a high musical voice which exuded warmth and friendship as she pushed white-gold hair back over her large pointed ears with dainty elfin fingers.
James Edwards-Smallbone (and no, he did not make that name up) is somewhere between Baloo and Brian Blessed and writes to get rid of ideas that are taking up valuable brain space.