(no subject)

Yesterday I got a 'phone call from Poor Mad Jeremy. He's been readmitted to Bedlam (St Mary's Bethlehem which relocated to West Wickham in the mid 19th Century).
He's on a locked ward and is in need of tobacco.
Will leave to visit him as soon as I've finished typing this entry.

As an aside, this morning I received a copy of 'Flicker' sent to me by e_compass_rosa. (Many thanks and what a marvellous woman - you who know her I'm sure appreciate her.) 
I meant to spend the day in bed reading it.
Duty first, however.

(no subject)

I fucking hate locked wards.
I fucking hate waiting for ten minutes for someone to let you in...then the sounds of the keys and locks being fastened against any escape. It's a real 'Norman Stanley Fletcher' moment. And what's sad is he's not a danger to anyone but himself, so why lock him up?
Most of the others on the ward seemed okay, but I fear there were one or two predatory types, and a couple of crazies attracted to violent forms of self expression.
Jeremy is mad, however. He now thinks he's the 'real' Jimmy Page and is wondering where his royalties have got to....excepting, he also thinks he's a consultant psychiatrist employed by the hospital. If there are any violent chaps in with him I hope he doesn't antagonise them with his delusions.
The time travel delusional stuff has become more acute as well. He thinks one of the chaps on the ward with him is Juan (an old schoolchum). I tried telling him Juan was still in Oxford...but to no avail alas.
Fuckitfuckitfuckit.
Thank the Gods that he is at least not miserable.