War had visited us once more, poking another of its ugly little hydra heads through the crust of the earth to breathe foul flame and death and destruction upon creation, upon the cities of this fair land. Hmmm … this is all a little too dramatic perhaps (and a little inappropriate) so I will endeavour to tone down the literary flourish just a tad and try to siphon off just a little of my own bathos if you will permit. And I am sure you will. Suffice to say the cities were not safe and while no declaration by our distant enemy had been made they had made veiled threats and my city had been on the top of the list of targets. So the atmosphere at home was palpable, thick and heavy-laden with fear and foreboding.
My apologies: there I go again with the over-acting prophesising end-of-the-world routine, I really must desist.
I absconded my responsibilities and took a little sojourn into the Victorian countryside and admitted my self into the best mental hospital money and privilege could buy. And while the title mental hospital is technically correct it is perhaps a little misleading, a term like Healing Farm might be more accurate and fitting at least in terms of the hospital’s marketing strategy. The Farm was built on a small Gippsland property not so far from Churchill and the staff were experienced and supportive, the facilities warm, friendly and very open; trips into town were frequent and encouraged so we spent our time there watching movies, doing chores, and of course talking about ourselves and our problems whether it was in group or over cake and coffee in town.
It’s not that I wasn’t sick as I’d been depressed for years and quite frankly I fitted in there better than I had anywhere else in all the days of my life but there was something not right…. and then I was woken by my mobile phone feeling a little unsettled.
No comments:
Post a Comment