abstract
| - The sound of my door being unlocked from the other side woke me up. The fat, pig-like nurse that I had mentally christened Dicke Bertha when first laying eyes upon entered. I subsequently found out she actually was called Soeur Angelique. I guess some people get to use up a lot of euphemism in their lives. She was one of those. She wished me a good morning in that raspy, low growl that results from years of smoking the bad stuff and punctuated the uttering with one of those wet, explosive coughs that are bound to bring up a mouth-full of tar-flavoured phlegm. "And how are we feeling today, patient Palsenbarg?" she asked, trying her best to sound enthusiastic and cheerful, but not succeeding entirely. Now mine isn't exactly a sweet disposition, as you may already have grokked. And being an involuntary inmate of a nut farm - pardon my French, I mean rest home - doesn't help much to alleviate that precondition. So usually, when awoken at a rude hour by a person who could easily be mistaken for the Missing Linkette, I tend to respond a bit grumpy. But not today. "Considering the circumstances," I replied, "we feel remarkably well. And, may I hasten to add, you yourself look astonishingly vibrant for someone who looks as if she has been been dead for the past three months." Wasted breath. She grinned her ugly brownish tombstone grin and ignored the quip. Instead, adding insult to injury, she asked what I'd like with breakfast: "coffee, tea or me?" Yeah, Right.
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