Brain Blancmange

I grab Mr H's handrail arm as I cautiously step out of a café into the golden, bright blue sky day. The heat bites into my shoulders with its sharp teeth as we amble down the hill on narrow, knobbly pavements. I try not to step into the busy road as we pass shops crammed with curios and cakes. 

My walking is slower than my normal snail stepping speed and I mutter to Mr H:

My head feels like wobbly blancmange. My brain is mushed. Its three steps behind me I say as I glance behind and with a hesitant step hope that it will catch me up.

I clasp Mr H's arm tighter as we cross the road. My head droops. A concentrated frown fixed to my face. 

I will my brain to follow me, catch me up. I can't lose it. Leave it behind.

Mr H leads me into a second hand bookshop. It is so full of books, comics, old typewriters, even a harpsichord  my blancmange like brain decides to stay at the door. I stumble past books piled on the floor. My eyes dart from corner to corner, shelf to shelf desperate to find a chair.

I need to sit I whisper.

Now!

Mr H scans the shop but can only locate a set of old wooden steps. I perch on the third rung. Stare blankly at the floor as the blancmange spreads into every crevice and crinkle of my brain. My stomach rises into my chest. I call this familiar feeling nausea. 

I stare at Mr H's red freckled legs as he stands protectively by my side. How do you feel he asks.

Awful

Sick...

I sweep my dusty hand across my forehead. Pull my hair away from my skull.  Lift my head and glance at the doorway. Fresh air.

A clock ticks away five minutes. Ten. I slowly ease my head off my shoulders. Look around. The corners of my mouth twitch into the start of a smile. My brain wafts through the door and slips back into place and...





like clouds in the sky, 
the blancmange gradually dissolves 
as the sunshine returns.





Feeling better?

Outside again Mr H firmly grips my hand as we cross the same road and walk towards a bench. I plonk myself down with a thump. Dipping my hand into our bag I pull out chunks of a crumbly Dorset scone which I greedily cram into my mouth. With each bite I feel the colour return to my cheeks. I look into Mr H's eyes and smile as seagulls sing their squawking song overhead.

Ten minutes later I stand, my post seizure brain now fully rested and restored. I wave goodbye to the wobbly blancmange as we walk, hand in hand, past ice cream stalls, a pebbly beach and shops selling sun hats, buckets and spades...