Friday, 27 February 2009

Coming home.
It's a phrase I have never understood.
I've had the same half dozen sealed boxes kicking around my last three houses.
I'm not a nomad or rootless or full of wanderlust, I have a mental illness. I have psychotic episodes. This most recent one is lasting a while; six years and counting. I don't really feel like coming out of my head and engaging. I'm afraid.


  1. And yet you know that's not true. Open the box, Farrish! You are the Kilburn Kolboynik and, as such, I salute you. Remember dear old Michael Miles? You would've opened the fabled Box 13 if he'd pressed you. Courage, mon brave. I know you.

  2. Mrs Pouncer you are right!
    I would have opened box thirteen.
    I liked the briefcase with the pound notes. I think it was sixty quid back then. I didn't like the canteen of cutlery. It wasn't Sheffield Everest that's for sure.
    I shall open the box.

  3. Where did you go, Mr Farrish?