The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

When they went upstairs the others were already adding the morning harvest to a Waldorf salad. There were quite a few dubious specimens with blue tinges and strange shapes, but the majority had that familiar phallic profile, so they ate them and waited for take off.
After twenty minutes or so, the tingling started and everything seemed funny. Some people began to smell a lot and a twist of fear ran around the group, as they reassured themselves with grins and sniggers. Somebody began picking their nose and the disturbed nostril swelled like a crater, while others swung their cigarettes around to leave bright orange arcs hanging in the air. There was some broken wind from the salad, and it fell on them like giant fly spit.
They were painfully inarticulate, then silent, experiencing periodic waves of euphoria and nausea, as the outside world shrank to a vague penumbra, and the room drifted like a raft in the beyond. Pink Floyd played, and they rode the rhythms of breath and heartbeat, while the wallpaper illusions shimmered and changed. Distinctions between object and subject began to blur, and they felt the thrill of disembodiment, loosing the feeling in arms and legs, swimming in the air, entering the music, leaving egos behind. Fragmenting.
But all too soon their minds sprung back into place, alcohol and joints were passed around, conversation returned, and they stepped back from the edge; personalities restored to what they weren’t.
They looked through the window and saw the zebra crossing, rising to the centre of the road in a perfect half circle; like a hill……


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