My chum Alfred has reached an odd stage in his journey into psychedelic oblivion.
The truth is I think old Alfred was finding the whole gig rather tedious. Finding a four hour space in his fun packed day to watch undulating walls, geometric patterns and the odd alien spaceship somehow lost its appeal. Its not even as if the wretched aliens actually abducted him, let alone confer on him the super powers he has so long suspected they possess.
The other downside was spending hours trying to dodge his rather conventional hausfrau, lest she realized he had taken more than a glass of sweet sherry and was, in a word, off his trolley.
Its just not the sort of thing you do in Downton, although I imagine its de rigeur in Made in Chelsea. Jane Austen never wrote about tittering women out of their skulls on herbal remedies. My, how Mrs Bennet would have disapproved. Mr Darcy would never stoop to such iniquity. Although a dose of psychedelics might have improved Lady Catherine de Burgh and her awful clergyman sidekick.
But then, so far as we are told, Darcy wasn’t a miserable sod blighted by the noon day demon.
Alfred is taking a break to assess where he is. He now recognizes he will never find the Philosopher’s Stone and wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did. Alfred is going nowhere and has nowhere to go. Perhaps that is the big secret to happiness – realizing you are there already.
He has largely given up what irritates him to death. “Other People” mostly. Oh, and the gym. He finally cracked when yet again some over enthusiastic fool smashed many, many tons of weights down on their frame and grunted loudly. Alfred happened to be all too close and despite the fact he is deaf as a post, the shock was devastating.
Up in the stretching room, some other moron was smashing a medicine ball up and down on the floor and the whole room shook. In the corner, another malign misfit smashed his fists into a punch bag, not forgetting to emit the customary animal grunt every time he did so. Well I say grunt, but Alfred says it was more like an orgasm really. Perhaps it’s all part of gay rights or the gender thing. God, poor old Alfred is just so out of touch with all that stuff.
Apparently Alfred spends most of his time outdoors and has largely given up the computer and Plan B – his forlorn attempt to find Eldorado.
Actually Alfred couldn’t give a stuff and that seems to suit him very well. The world is going to hell in a hand cart and as far as Alfred is concerned it can trundle on its way so long as it leaves him alone.
Of course it all might change; moods can turn on a sixpence. But perhaps the psychedelics have had some effect after all. Perhaps some annealing has taken place. Perhaps the neurons in his addled brain have been scrambled and knitted together again in a new and benign configuration, with different connections, unaccustomed thought patterns. Levity even.
No doubt Alfred will revisit the Magic Mushroom but perhaps for the time being, psychedelics can be left on the shelf in the larder.