The Walkden Asylum for the Halfwitted, known for its refusal to admit the dimwitted, sits between two mountains, neither of which is higher than an anthill. Doctor Amadora oversees the asylum from the comfort of his surgery high, high above the yard for the ambulatory and those able to hop on one leg. Lela’s great-great granddad, a halfwit, lived at the Walkden Asylum for the Halfwitted from the age of 65 until his demise at the age of 127½ (it was claimed, by whom is of little interest, that her great-great granddad was in possession of a magic glove able to grant him the wish of vitality and a long life; with one caveat, it did nothing for his halfwittedness, so he lived out his 127½ years walking and hopping the yard for the ambulatory and those able to hop on one leg). Much like the Overnight Asylum, where dimwits and the mentally insane were given insulin shocks and ice-cold baths, the Walkden Asylum for the Halfwitted existed but for the secrecy of its locale, neither asylum within eyeshot of a town, borough, province or parish.
Doctors Amstelveen and Burdur, renown for their research into halfwittedness, shared a fondness for women’s haberdashery; Dr. Burdur having a preference for underclothes and stockings, Dr. Amstelveen for hooped-skirts and supple lambskin gloves. When Dr’s. Amstelveen and Burdur weren’t administering insulin shocks or filling bathtubs with ice-cold water, they spent their time in search of women’s haberdashery, a search that took them hither and thon, from one town to the next, over mountains and across treacherous ravines, behind Waymarts and Women’s Apparel stores, sifting through dustbins for soiled stockings and underclothes, mismatched gloves and hooped-skirts with broken stiles.
’…merde c’est merde…!’ said Dr. Amstelveen to Dr. Burdur who was busy cracking ice-cubes, freeing them from their plastic coffins. ‘…stinkpots, nothing but cakey stinkpots, treacherous cunts…’ said Dr. Burdur, his eyes narrowing, the bridge of his nose sharpening. ‘…Quaker’s-seedcake and cobbler and the Castor-oil for whooping and shingles yellow-linoleum scuffed through to tacking and me in the corner with rickets colic and lyme me fader's bootprints wet with muck and scoff…’ lilted Dr. Amstelveen, ‘…treacherous cunts indeed…’. They talked like this, babbling incoherently, until they tired of one others’ company, then decided to go in search of something to eat, Dr. Amstelveen hungry for flatcakes and jelly, Dr. Burdur for raw cabbage and parish cake. They hired a hansom cab with a crescent-shaped window in the roof and told the driver to take them somewhere where they could eat whatever their hearts desired, both men snickering and guffawing like scolded children.
Lela’s great-great granddad lived until he was 127½ years old, sitting in the dark thinking of ways to build a motorcar that could travel faster than the speed of light and filling his stomach with candy floss and caramel apples, the orderly shaking his head every time he let out a fart or belched like a sot. Lives’ take on a meaning all their own, some full of vim and vinegar, others overflowing with bitterness and remorse. Lela’s great-great granddad’s life was neither happy nor sad, but somewhere in between, where happiness and sadness are the same thing, and life nothing but nonsense, with every man, woman and halfwit trying to make sense of the nonsense that is theirs.
Doctors Amstelveen and Burdur, renown for their research into halfwittedness, shared a fondness for women’s haberdashery; Dr. Burdur having a preference for underclothes and stockings, Dr. Amstelveen for hooped-skirts and supple lambskin gloves. When Dr’s. Amstelveen and Burdur weren’t administering insulin shocks or filling bathtubs with ice-cold water, they spent their time in search of women’s haberdashery, a search that took them hither and thon, from one town to the next, over mountains and across treacherous ravines, behind Waymarts and Women’s Apparel stores, sifting through dustbins for soiled stockings and underclothes, mismatched gloves and hooped-skirts with broken stiles.
’…merde c’est merde…!’ said Dr. Amstelveen to Dr. Burdur who was busy cracking ice-cubes, freeing them from their plastic coffins. ‘…stinkpots, nothing but cakey stinkpots, treacherous cunts…’ said Dr. Burdur, his eyes narrowing, the bridge of his nose sharpening. ‘…Quaker’s-seedcake and cobbler and the Castor-oil for whooping and shingles yellow-linoleum scuffed through to tacking and me in the corner with rickets colic and lyme me fader's bootprints wet with muck and scoff…’ lilted Dr. Amstelveen, ‘…treacherous cunts indeed…’. They talked like this, babbling incoherently, until they tired of one others’ company, then decided to go in search of something to eat, Dr. Amstelveen hungry for flatcakes and jelly, Dr. Burdur for raw cabbage and parish cake. They hired a hansom cab with a crescent-shaped window in the roof and told the driver to take them somewhere where they could eat whatever their hearts desired, both men snickering and guffawing like scolded children.
Lela’s great-great granddad lived until he was 127½ years old, sitting in the dark thinking of ways to build a motorcar that could travel faster than the speed of light and filling his stomach with candy floss and caramel apples, the orderly shaking his head every time he let out a fart or belched like a sot. Lives’ take on a meaning all their own, some full of vim and vinegar, others overflowing with bitterness and remorse. Lela’s great-great granddad’s life was neither happy nor sad, but somewhere in between, where happiness and sadness are the same thing, and life nothing but nonsense, with every man, woman and halfwit trying to make sense of the nonsense that is theirs.
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