Cynara's Note #35 1971.

A woman in a mental ward after a mental breakdown

The day began with me having a headache. The last day of the year. I began the day with a row with the night nurse who wouldn't give me a tablet for the headache; one miserly tablet. I don't  know why she was such a cow; maybe she is sex starved. She didn't appreciate me saying that. Breakfast was the usual crap: sticky porridge like wallpaper paste, stewed tea and burnt toast. Loony Lucy vomited all over the lounge floor and the stink drove most of us out. I walked the corridor and looked out the barred window at the fields and hedgerows and the trees. I miss the snow we had; it made everything look bright and clean. Alun said he had been to Paris and painted. Truth is he went there and no one knew; his parents were frantic with worry. The French police found him chalking on the pavement and he was unaware where he was so they brought him back here. Dinner time came so soon that I thought the nurses had altered the clocks. The cook had made a concoction called stew; it tasted like the meat had died years ago. The gravy was so thick you could stick your fork in it and it would stand up. The afternoon dragged. The lounge still stunk of Lucy's vomit, despite the cleaner throwing stuff at it and cleaning the floor. I sat there with my jumper over my nose. I had to see the quack after dinner; the Irish one who asked me all kinds of questions about my life and such. I noticed Vincent sat to the side finger drawing into his palm; the quack didn't seem to notice Van Gogh there, or if he didn't care.