A few days ago I woke in the early hours of the morning having a ‘ticcing fit’. Poppy was doing my overnight support and quickly came to help me.
After five minutes or so my speech returned, or to be more accurate my vocal tics returned. I wasn’t able to tell Poppy what I needed, but I was able to make an extensive involuntary catalogue of bold claims:
“I’m a horoscope predicting your downfall.
I’m a fucking loaf of bread.
I’m Taylor Swift in a bath of prune juice.
I’m a kitchenette in a Wanstead bedsit.
I’m fishing for compliments without a maggot.
I’m the filament of a light bulb with a hairline crack in it.
I’m an Artex ceiling from another decade.
I’m the cork floor in a cotton wool factory.
I’m the aftermath of an adjective.
I’m a fallen star in a solar system of geometric fish.
I’m the end of a splash and the beginning of time.
I’m all the triangles you’ve never seen.
I’m the left-hand turn after the satnav’s gone dead.
I’m an undiscovered mime artist.
I’m the doppelgänger of a fromage-frais left out in the rain.”
Poppy was faced with every support worker’s most difficult dilemma. Should she focus on supporting me through the fit, or on writing down the stream of funny tics?
The fact that you’re reading this is a testimony to her excellent decision-making.