Cynara's Note #42 1972

The tension in the lounge this morning was so tense you could cut it with a knife and send it off to war. Big Sid the male nurse tried to ease the tension with humour, but it didn't work. Bradley obnoxious fart said something to Bridget which brought her Gaelic and foul language into the locked ward. I sat watching them and lit a cigarette. The nurses gave Alun a piece of paper and a selection of crayons. He showed me his interpretation of the Mona Lisa: a round faced girl with curtain styled red hair and a smile like a slice of melon. Vincent sitting beside me in the lounge wasn't impressed, but Alun couldn't seem Van Gogh, so it didn't matter. After dinner of overcooked pork and potatoes and vegetables, I had to go and see the shrink. An half hour of one way talk with a new prescription of medication and my moody silence. After teatime of boring sandwiches and sawdust cake, I sat in the lounge watching the braincell destroying TV until bedtime. Life is becoming an unraveling piece of crime.