[LazyScot]

There is that wonderful fragment of non-time that lies in the void between being and not being that you pass through in the journey from unconsciousness to consciousness. Just as you become self-aware, but before you actually know who, what and where you are, there is laid out before you a panoply of perfect possibilities of everything you could dream of being, doing or achieving.

Then Reality saunters by, rolls up your panoply, tucks it under her arm and ambles off, tossing back a faded, tired and slighly forsaken scrap of paper with your lot for the day. (I don't think she likes me very much at the moment.)

Right about now, I would have been so glad to have had the usual scrap of paper. However, Atropos, Lachesis and Clotho seemed to have other ideas for me. Which probably explained the strange feeling of being slapped about the face by what might be a slightly sweaty….

I opened my eyes.

"Hello Hugo."

"No. I'm not Hugo. I'm not Lefty."

"Ummm. Hello not Lefty."

"Good Morning."

I looked around and tried to decide where I was. It was… woolly. In a very defined and precise sort of way. But strangely stylish. A group of three people wandered past, deep in discussion, speaking in French: Denis Diderot, Jean-Paul Sartre and Voltaire. Somewhat lowering the tone, tucked away in a corner were a collection of skimpily clad garter belts (exactly how an item of apparel can be skimpily clad I have no idea, but then, this wasn't my subconscious I was stuck in, was it?) that were playing with knitting needles. Somehow, I felt I was missing something with that particular scene.

"Oh…. GREAT!" I muttered, sarcastically, "I'm stuck in the subconscious of a sock." And at that point the various ZCDs decided to collect the second instalment of their payment plan, and the inside of my head promptly took the role of temporary containment facility for a small number of SHUMs (who had been anti-tranquilised with excessive doses of tartrazine). There are certain times when amputation seems a highly advisable and very sensible medical treatment. My head promptly fell into that category.

"Lazy, why have you turned that colour?" asked not Lefty.

"Because I've got something unpleasant stuck in my head, and I've no idea where the exit is."

"Is that like being worn by someone who doesn't know what a pedicure is?"

"Yes." I concluded after a brief pause, and made a mental note to make sure my toenails are properly clipped and my feet washed before I ever put on a pair of socks. "But I still need to get out of here."

"Would a sing-song help? I always find a sing-song helps. I've almost learned the words to La Marseillaise."

"No, I just need to concentra-" There are times when a really stupid idea turns round and hits you over the head several times with the aid of a baseball bat just to get your attention and stop you being so incredibly stupid. That's what not Lefty's idea was doing. Although it almost failed to make an impact (thanks to the ongoing actions of the SHUMs currently holidaying in my skull), it did eventually manage to make enough of a dent to attract the attention of some of the remaining cognitive functions that had not fled to the relative safety of Adrian's Bar. Slowly a light-bulb dimly lit up. "What an excellent idea, but I think a song other than La Marseillaise is called for."

"Well, I am brilliant."

"Ummm. Yes." I coughed, stiffened my sinews, tried not to think about the hideous thing I was about to do, tried to convince myself that the ends justified the means and broke into what I shall, for the purposes of narration, call song…

"My my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender

There are times when it crosses your mind that not Lefty's brilliant idea might not be as brilliant as it should have been, that perhaps Waterloo was not the best song, and that you don't really know enough lines

Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way

It is perhaps interesting for the reader to consider the phrase "hopping mad". This is a phrase that you do not truly understand until you are stuck in the subconscious of sock that is mad. Trust me.

The history book on the shelf

It was about this point that I suddenly felt myself in the middle of a remake of Hitcock's "the Birds". Except that this time it was called "The Books". And an exceptionally large flock of them where heading towards me.

Is always repeating itself

It seemed that Hugo was attempting to rid his subconscious of this particular catch tune with the aid of a large number of exceptionally worth, hardcover, leather bound volumes. Travelling at high speed.

"Antibodies?" asked not Lefty, having placed some earplugs he didn't have….. Well, I'm not sure where his not ears were, but I'll assume that's where he placed them.

Waterloo - I was defeated, you won the war

The flight of the books was then joined by a strange rumbling, as if of a large mill wheel dredged up from some nightmare.

Waterloo - promise to love you for ever more

And then everything started shaking violently, sort of as if someone was either banging their head against a wall, or was stuck inside a badly out of balance washing machine set to ultra high speed spin.

Waterloo – couldn't escape if I wanted to

Not an auspicious line I though as the flying books arrived, a large mill wheel appeared above me obeying the laws of physics, the shaking reached a point on the Richter scale marked "Spinal Tap" and everything started to go out. Passing out, I finally gave up "singing", and strangely I could have sworn I heard "The Galaxy Song." Depressing.

<BLESSED DARKNESS>