Poppy was back at the castle this evening for her weekly turn as my overnight support worker. Shortly before we headed to our beds I had a “ticcing fit.” As is often the case I lost my speech, but this time not completely.

I mightn’t have been able to tell Poppy which bits of my body were in pain, but I could tell her why I was similar to an oak tree:

“I’m like an oak tree because I laugh at lamp-posts.”
“I’m like an oak tree because I hear owls in my mind.”
“I’m like an oak tree because squirrels nest in my vagina.”
“I’m like an oak tree because I move a lot and never get anywhere.”

Poppy was unfazed. It’s not the first time she’s heard my tics make sudden bold claims and I doubt it’ll be the last.

Just when we both thought I’d finished talking about trees, my tics discovered a new branch to explore…

“I’m like an elegant little table that was once an oak tree.”