Cynara's Note #36 1971.

A young woman's note about a day in a locked ward.

The morning was spoiled by a loathsome breakfast; I think the cook must be a sadist of some kind. I nibbled the limp toast and sipped the stewed tea. I sat in the night nurse’s little office last night and talked to her about going home. She said I wasn’t ready yet; needed more time in the locked ward and medication. A lot of good she was. In the morning loony Lucy fought with the fat nurse; she was like a wild cat whose tail had been trod on. The other nurse calmed her down and she came next to me on the battered old sofa, laying her head on my shoulder. Alun in one of his artistic moods, crayoned on the bathroom wall; quite good in a Picasso kind of way. The nurses were not happy; they made him clean it off. Shame I liked it. Dinner was some kind of stew which was so thick you could have walked across it. In the afternoon I had to see the mind quack. He was his usual droll self. I sat watching him speak, how his thick lips moved around the words. I answered the best I could. Vincent sat in the other chair picking at his nails, muttering something about rooks and cornfields. The quack never saw Van Gogh sitting beside me and I never mentioned him being there. I don’t know what the quack got out of the session. But I got piles and a headache. Tea time Big Sid brought in plates of sandwiches from the kitchen downstairs. They looked better than usual and tasted like real meat. The cheese ones tasted like dead man’s feet. Lucy kissed me while we sat in the lounge watching the TV this evening. It was a wet but warm kiss. I kind I will get to miss.