Diary of a Psychiatric Nurse

I said nothing, remembering the curious range of Freudian slips Sidney often produced during the working day. He was a real veteran of psychiatric nursing, with a career stretching back almost 40 years, and while most of his contemporaries had moved into different fields, escaped through promotion or retired early, he had somehow survived the worst experiences the asylum could offer, hanging on for full pension like an old bloodied bull dog on the burglar’s arm. But his resilience had come at a price, and now the four decades of filth, horror and stress which packed his unconscious mind were slowly seeping out; tripping and stalling his intended speech with tragic-comic mischief. A bit like a half mad beast reaching through the bars of a cage to scratch its own keeper.
He looked a bit like Ziggy Stardust through a fisheye security peep-hole, stuck unapologetically in the 1970’s, but with a cracking, dusty husk, somewhat reminiscent of the girl who aged horribly when she unwisely left the magical confines of Shangri-La.


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