Paradise

I do like fun. I have changed my name by deed poll before and my pseudonyms I enjoyed choosing. I’ve had a lot of nicknames, or aliases as they’ve been refered to by professionals. The sillier the better. Hubert Von Wolfhausen was one I toyed with for a while. Jeff Pudding, I liked, but my current one Rex Fletcher is my favourite. My nicknames in the past were

Flats
Tulip
Mahogany
Mammoth head
Ferguson.
Paradise
Pond

And maybe a few others that I’ve forgotten. I’m pleased that Mammoth head was replaced by Paradise by a guy called Lummox. I think anyone would feel a little ego boost when walking down a high street you here someone holler ‘Paradise!” and you turn around smugly. Yep, that’s me ladies.

The only fun that I’m not too keen on is the unit’s annual ‘Fun day’ as it’s called. I stock up on nicotine and water and hide away when this sad event takes place.

There’s a ‘Guess how many sweeties in the jar’ competition, faded bunting, cakes, fizzy pop and a vicar, who when I’m high on pharmaceuticals, I talk to about King Sargon of akkad. She humours me.

The fun begins.

Hoards of overweight sedated fun seekers get ushered in from the other wards into our compound and congregate around the cupcakes. Patients sit and wonder when the fun begins. Has it started?

My fantasy of an ideal fun day would to be woken up by a mute oriental woman dressed as a clown.

I’d stretch, put her back in her room then put on a white suit (I am paradise) I’d locate the nearest legalised drinking saloon and swagger in, ready for fun.

The staff here do try their best but there’s different approaches displayed by support workers. The middle aged women tend to mother the chronics treating us like children. The NHSP’s who are mostly Nigerian just look at you and do not tend to interact.

I get given quite a wide berth and get away with a lot. I hardly get a knock on my door or asked to participate in anything. I’m either grumpy and aloof, mainly because I am in physical pain, or gregarious and superficial when making an effort.

If you treat a seven year old like a three year old they will not respond well.
If you treat a group of criminals in their thirties and fifties like seven year olds, they will politely decline ‘magic sand’ ‘fairy liquid bubbles’ and ‘smoothy making groups’. We are not retarded aliens, we want the same as most, to be able to socialise, smoke drink etc.

I am indifferent to the fact we have two rabbits called Moppsy and fucking Floppsy. This place looks like a nursery school.

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