its eyelids slid upwards, and the swaying ceiling of the brick semi-detached was
revealed in all its sickening motion. The over-cooked, congealed porridge of a
brain sent a lightning fast message to the eyelids to close shop. Two minutes later,
message received, they gratefully did so.
Bleary, red tracked eyes stared back at him from the mirror. His face reminded
him of a picture of a shrunken head he had once seen. His bedraggled whiskers
could be mistaken for the string they used to sew the mouth shut. With sudden
panic he realized a mouse must be sleeping in his mouth and tried to spit it out,
but it was only his swollen, befurred tongue, and the next minute the early morning
express raced through his head and he groaned aloud with the panging ache that chased
after it.
For the third time that morning his eyes opened. His wife, her face a study in
aspersion, stood before him, "Yer kippers are ready ye sorry wee sot."
He moaned again in sorrowful self-pity. Was it his fault the Drummon Chapter of
the Robbie Burns Poetry Society met every fourth Thursday night for reverent
recitals, happy haggis eating and wanton whiskey sipping? Was it his fault that he,
a teetotalling Methodist all his life, was sent by the Government to the remote
Highlands town every fourth Friday morning to drill, dredge, yank and cap over the
well-fermented fumes of whiskey and haggis for hour after hour, until finally his
almost desensitised body was carted back to the wee plane to return home again?
Was it his fault he had to breathe?
Ach well. Maybe it was all his fault. Slowly he straightened himself and prepared
to move. Had not his own father warned him to nae become a dentist?
 |
|