This morning a ‘ticcing fit’ turned into an involuntary poetry recital when my tics suddenly took flight with Icarus:

“Icarus, your mum was a piece of plastic tubing,
Your father was a bee,
And you flew too close to a Gordon Ramsey lookalike.
You flew too close to a 14″ TV.

Icarus, you flew too close to a hovercraft,
You flew too close to the mind of a mum.
Put your wings away Icarus, and get a cab,
Take some time out to study.

Things would’ve been better if you wore Spandex and flew with Easy Jet.
Imagine a flow diagram of Icarus hitting a brick wall.
Put your hopes and dreams in an envelope and send it by airmail.
And then it ended.”