I was able to treat the dislodged brain-wiring by myself, for though I have neglected to learn about the toads of the world, I do know a thing or two about the magnificent complexity of the human brain. Luckily a cure was affected before I had to do this show, otherwise ResonanceFM would be shut down by the authorities for broadcasting disgusting language in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, when innocent and sensitive ears would be appalled, and rightly so. He recoiled from me, as if I had screeched some blasphemous execration, as indeed I had, for the clonk on my head had dislodged some of the nerve-wirings in my brain, and for the next three days whenever I spoke, whatever I tried to say, I spewed forth a tirade of foulness.
"Oh, sorry I clonked you on the head," said the postie, "Here, I have a letter for you."Įven in the most trying of circumstances, I try to be polite, so as I took the envelope from the postie I thanked him. The hallucinatory toads vanished, and I sat up on the gravel, rubbing the lump that was already swelling where I had been clonked. even though I sensed they were the product of my fuming brain, they were frightening enough, particularly the one called Graham, which had more eyes than you normally see on a toad, even a giant golden poisonous toad, and each eye was quivering on the end of a stalk, which again is untoadlike, as far as I know, not that I have ever made a study of the world's toads, though it is on my list of Things to Do.Īnyway, there I was, cutting the opposite of a dash, when the postie bashed his way through the garden gate, clonking me on the head. I knew they were visions, because there are no giant golden poisonous toads in this neck of the woods, but still.
I shuddered and shook, twitching and shattered, and hideous visions swam in my brain. I got as far as the garden gate before collapsing in a mewling heap. Some hours later, when I had stopped sobbing, I did indeed clamber from my sickbed, put on my boots, and I launched myself towards the duckpond. I tossed my metal tapping machine on to the floor among the piles of rags, and sobbed. There is nothing wrong with you that a brisk walk around the duckpond in a hailstorm won't fix. "For crying out loud, Key!" I read through my tears, "Stop being such a milquetoast whinger. And when I read the message, I was convulsed anew, as if ten thousand demons with ten thousand forks were pricking me ten thousand times. Weakly, I reached for it, nearly falling from my rumpled pallet as I did so. As I tossed and turned in an agony of twitching fits, I became aware of a message on my metal tapping machine. At least one acquaintance made this accusation in the past fortnight. Some might choose to call this writer's block, or even idleness, but they know not whereof they speak. Now, one consequence of lying abed groaning and whimpering in the throes of neurasthenic horrors is a disinclination to write. Excuse me for a moment while I mop my still fevered brow. but here I am, ready to provide you with half an hour of instructive prose to inspire your moral sentiments. Yes, I struggled my way through the weird pneumatic doors, I panted for breath as I staggered on to the moving walkway, there was a ringing in my ears as I slumped on the floor of the turbo-elevator which shot me to the top of the building in just four seconds, and I needed a bowl of energising vitamin soup before I could speak. The latter, sprinkled on to a plum or a conference pear, can work wonders on even the puniest constitution, and indeed, here I am back behind the microphone on a Wednesday afternoon, bringing the show to you live from the gleaming skyscraper which houses the ResonanceFM studio. At times like these I tend to rely on the regular infusion of Baxter's Terrible Fluid, or Dr Gillespie's Vital Nerve Powders. I wish I could say that I have been somewhere interesting-Aztec ruins, say, or the magic mountain, or even a chalet on the shingle beach at Pointy Town-but alas, I have been a pallid sickly wretch, suffering from risings in the spleen and the ague and black bile and the bloody flux and vapours in the cranial integuments. Regular listeners to Hooting Yard On The Air will know that I have been away for a couple of weeks. When the podcast becomes available, I shall add a link to it. Here is a transcript of part of yesterday's Hooting Yard On The Air radio show.
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