A VERY LONG NIGHT

A bad night...

Many of my online friends may have noted that my appearances here recently have been more sporadic than is usual, and there’s a reason for that.

I’m a sad old asthmatic and I’ve passed through a spell of coughs and splutters and general unwell-being recently. Then I was give some pills by the doctor and they have cured all my ills and left me with a quandary.

You see, the steroids, which is what the pills were, have side effects, according to the leaflet that accompanied them, and one of them is a feeling of nausea.

Last night as I lay curled up next to me delicious wife I felt a trifle nauseous. Unpleasant and in no way reflective of my usual passion.

Another side effect, it would seem, is the production of obscene quantities of urine and, I’ll bet you’ve guessed it, I found myself trotting to the toilet every hour and possibly even on the hour throughout the night.

All of which left my exhausted body precious little time for sleep.

Then came a third side effect. Odd visions, strange dreams, weirdness, and I got that.

During the night and for ages I found myself in a textile factory filled with skilled stitchers and they were all making fanciful garments of their own design. Dorothy made a rather vulgar little black dress (I’ll say no more) and I was tasked with producing a square handkerchief.

But that wasn’t the worst of the experience.

Far from it.

There was only one qualification required for us to gain entry to the place, and that was the possession of a heavy French accent. No French accent, no entry.

I’ve no idea where it came from and I’ve never been particularly skilled when it comes to mimicry, but I had to speak with that fabulous accent or I wouldn’t have been allowed in. But there I was, needle in hand, grin on sloppy face and designing away at my square hankie like the devil I never was.

So beware. I’m sure it was the steroids. Everything fits. And we had the worst night in a decade, Dorothy and I. Worse even than the asthma. I haven’t recovered yet. Pardonnez moi.

© Peter Rogerson 16.07.21

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