Le Dormeur

 

I woke up early one afternoon

to find Norris McWhirter

stood at the foot of my bed.

What is your name? he asked.

It's Mr Mann to you I said.

He wrote it down with a swan feather quill

in his Guinness Book of Records.

What record have I broken, prithee?

Mr Mann, you are officially

the World's Laziest Bastard.

I moaned. I started to cry.

I took it rather hard.

 

But it's so warm in here I protested.

So delightful and so cosy.

Why don't I slide on over I suggested

and you can snuggle up to Josie?*

 

Minutes turned to hours.

Hours turned to days.

Days turned to weeks.

Weeks turned to months.

You get the picture.

And still, Norris McWhirter

was held by the spell

of the memory foam.

He lived on glasses of cognac

and assorted hors-d'œuvres,

brought to our bedside

by a worried-looking Peter Purves,

while at a vat of baked beans I picked

with a left-handed cocktail stick.

Can we break the Bed-in record?

I asked him one morning.

Who cares? he replied,

flipping his pillow† and yawning.

 

Roy Castle entered the room,

playing the trumpet while tap dancing

(which takes some doing, I can tell you).

He bent over me, whispered in my ear,

Mr McWhirter isn't really there.

He died years ago in the electric chair,

before singing, before crooning,

whilst thin air I was spooning,

Medication,

Medication,

Medication - that's what you need.

Épilogue

Now I do as I am told.
I take all of my meds.
But I still see Norrie's toupee
on a hook above my bed.

B.R. 16/01/2016


* Mr Mann's cat
† In order to enjoy the pleasing coolness on the other side