‘The Fog of war’, Houswife Maureen Drabley enjoys “a nice cup of tea’ after spring cleaning. London1940.
The following is a troubling account of an individual surffering from LCS, (Lost Cup Syndrome). Our in-house Physician, Dr Eugene Von-Fangle, suggests this as another case of post-covid cup syndrome, in which hitherto obvious and accessible household items become lost due to the psycho-physical impact of post-covid disorientation syndrome. This condition is occasioned by ; “moments of incomprehensible frustration, disorientation in the kitchen or bathroom, and a compelling desire to find something that is not entirely lost‘.
We hope the writers condition is treatable, and if you have a problem with LCS and are afflicted, please contact our national LCS Crisis-line staff who all trained NDIS operatives. They will politely put you on hold and hope you discretely go away.
The afflicted writes;
A confused soldier suffering LCS mistakes a prosthetic foot for a “nice Cup of tea” Afghanistan 2012.
‘I arose from my creative endeavours, wondering where my cup might be.
Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, hunting high up and low down, in the cupboards, in the sink, down to the bathroom, then the bedroom, (Where in the name of Jeyesified Christ did I put it?) On, on and on I stumbled, praying to the Blessed Saint Jude, begging the Finder of Lost Things to rid me of this Sisyphean task. By this time I’m out in the garden, or groping around in the shed as the wind, again and again, slams the door shut.This leaves me in the murderous dark where, any minute now a crowbar or a more predictable rake might come powering through the Stygian gloom and smash my unsuspecting head amidships. Sobbing I fling the door open and burst gratefully into the light. Then, miracle of miracles, old St Jude hits me with a corker! Use a different cup! The simplicity of this solution, the pure unembroidered truth of this quite took my breath away. All of my pent up pentuppery, all of my weak-willed, savage need to kick the heads off my19th century garden gnomes was. of an instant. banished. Instead, golden sunbeams dappled the very air itself, and birds, a celestial choir, sprinkled the morning with song.
Tripping lightly as a faun, I hied myself to the kitchen, seized me a fresh cup, filled it with cold coffee from the plunger, then, milked and sugared, I turned to the microwave. Indecent expletives rent the air. There, cooling its heels within was my lost coffee cup, full and uncaring, an alien skin forming slowly on its microwavial surface. The very same cup I had placed in the microwave not an hour ago–and forgotten.
Appalled at this terrifying revelation I stood in my kitchen, distractedly rending my garments. This proved decidedly difficult. To this day I remain convinced that Biblical Middle Easterners carried those wickedly curved knives, not , as it is popularly held, to assist them in random assassinations, but to help them in perplexed moments when the rending of garments is the only available option. A couple of discreet, understated slashes (soon mended) and you are done, whereas, by the time rending with brute strength has exhausted you, your mood has changed and you have destroyed a perfectly good jacket.
So please, please, please:
Stop thinking the worst, when you’re not really cursed,
Cast aside all our medical marvels,
Remember you must? Check the microwave first!
Lest you really are losing your marbles!
THIS HAS BEEN ANOTHER EXTRACT FROM “THE BOOK OF SHORT ATTENTION SPAN” BY
DAME NORAH BOOTH (who will probably be remembered)
DAME NORAH BOOTH (who will probably be remembered)
Dame Nora