For a Few Hours I was Daredevil
I have a fever. It came upon me last night with all the speed and brutality of a Hackney mugging. It quickly possessed my body and hijacked my mind, driving it into the strange territory of hallucination where it dumped it like a joyrider abandons a burning car a patch of fetid waste ground.
As I lay in bed, the fever mutated my senses to a new extreme of sensitivity. My skin could read the weave of the cotton sheets, I could hear every individual vehicle powering along the Westway during the sodium orange hours. For a few hours I was Daredevil (though without the ninja prowess, Catholic angst and string of dead girlfriends).
The worst of it came when I actually thought I had escaped into sleep. A dream of improbable domestic bliss in Shepherds Bush began to turn nasty. I was being interviewed by a Northern Irish journalist I had stupidly allowed into my home. After a series of questions about the Anderstown Road, they asked me if I had gone to Alexander Litvinenko’s funeral before suddenly pulling out a Heckler & Koch USP, screaming at me that they had known Litvinenko as well and shooting me before I had finished making them a cup of tea. Trust me, as nightmares go, this was one of the most realistic and troubling I have had for several weeks.
As I lay in bed, the fever mutated my senses to a new extreme of sensitivity. My skin could read the weave of the cotton sheets, I could hear every individual vehicle powering along the Westway during the sodium orange hours. For a few hours I was Daredevil (though without the ninja prowess, Catholic angst and string of dead girlfriends).
The worst of it came when I actually thought I had escaped into sleep. A dream of improbable domestic bliss in Shepherds Bush began to turn nasty. I was being interviewed by a Northern Irish journalist I had stupidly allowed into my home. After a series of questions about the Anderstown Road, they asked me if I had gone to Alexander Litvinenko’s funeral before suddenly pulling out a Heckler & Koch USP, screaming at me that they had known Litvinenko as well and shooting me before I had finished making them a cup of tea. Trust me, as nightmares go, this was one of the most realistic and troubling I have had for several weeks.
4 Comments:
I feel for you man, I really do.
How is it that i check your blog several times a day yet, lo! and behold, today i find 3 entries dating back several days?
Hope you're feeling more fit and the concert was great.
Thank you both for your concern.
I was too ill to go to the concert... it really is the curse of Placebo.
Man, I really feel for you. I'd give someone's right arm to get to see Placebo -- having narrowly missed them several times in the last six months, I'm particularly miffed about it -- and being denied by fever must be a serious frustration... I hope you're OK, eh?
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