Cynara’s Note # 47 1972.

Sunday came as most Sundays do breathing boredom and holiness. The cook dished up hard boiled eggs and toasted soldiers soaked in butter. Alun ate nothing said he was dieting for the those artist starving in forgotten studios in some Parisian hovel. He supped tea and eventually ate dry bread. I wanted to go for a walk outside t he locked ward but the nurse on duty said no as they were short of staff and it was too cold. I gave her visual daggers and imagined blood oozed from her over-sized breast. I need a smoke but my favourite nurse Blue wasn’t on duty and the plump b***h didn’t smoke. I cadged a smoke from the new woman called Lily who said nothing just gave me a plump cigarette. Loony Lucy wanted to hold my hand because she said her mother couldn’t make visiting in the afternoon so I was her mother substitute. Dinner was roast something or other with the thickest gravy I have ever seen with apple crumble and running custard like new baby’s nappy run. My dad came spot on time this afternoon with two packets of cigarettes, a small box of chocolates and a book of Emily Dickenson poems. He said Mum wasn’t up to visiting as he had one of her heads. I said I didn’t care which head she brought as long as she came. He didn’t think that funny. He didn’t say much and listened to my moans and complaints. Vincent walked around the room smoking his phantom pipe, but neither Dad nor anyone else saw van Gogh, but I did though.