Du-du, du-du-du-du-du-du-du, du-du…I can’t help it. I’m sorry. If now isn’t the moment, I doubt I’ll know when that moment ever is. I don’t care if we’ve heard this before. Teach this lot the appropriate choreography and we’re away.
HH has done well. Alright, I was ready to shoot him the moment he yelled “Dibs!” in that horribly squelchy new voice of his, but I’ll let that drop unless he does it again. We’re going to see Samantha, whoever that is. Probably not the female PG Tips monkey. Who cares. Maybe she’ll know what’s going on here.
Alice still hasn’t told us, which is slightly disconcerting. I’m starting to think I should have asked already. It’s hard to tell, though, if she genuinely knew what she was getting into, directing us here through a damn time hole. The zombies, I think, surprised her. I think.
She hasn’t argued with HH yet, although that may be because neither of us know which HH will argue back. The one that drools and talks about his appetite a lot won’t be much help. If we stick with them, we might at least find out how HH picked up this bubbly new personality disorder. Maybe how to rid him of it.
On the way, we’ve seen a lot of this hospital. It’s the most surreal guided tour I’ve yet been on. To your left, the A&E unit- a hand for the chaps, if you will…or a foot…they don’t seem all that picky, actually…to your right, the disabled toilets.
Gaze in wonder into the murky depths of the forever beloved janitor’s closet! Stare mildly to the fabled geriatric ward! Waft in the scents of the staff coffee room! It’s all here, folks. At this rate, with guides like this, I should bloody well know so.
Funny thing, though, I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually been to a hospital. I know what they look like, and I know what they do. But I sure as hell don’t know any names. Being in hospital has always happened to other people, I guess because other people don’t have Frank…
“Didn’t I tell you lot to leave me- wait a minute. YOU again?”
This is from an old woman, who looks like the matriarch of librarian hell. Some people, it must be said, look a bit mad. This one considered madness wasn’t interesting enough. She’s wearing a damn cardigan, for Ned’s sake. Made of skin. And glasses hanging from a bit of string. Ugh.
She’s also holding a needle, loaded with squirmy spiky things and orange liquid. Not someone I want to get close to. HH, on the other hand, looks like a dog that’s spotted a particular tired-looking squirrel. Yes, Alice, that is drool.
Behind the old bag is a table, covered in what appears to be a mix of Crazy Alchemist’s Picnic Hamper (just £5.99, for a limited time only, ask at your local supermarket for more details) and Do It Yourself Satanic Summoning Kit (currently out of stock). It smells delicious. Which rather freaks me out, I must say, unless she packed sandwiches. Which is unlikely. I doubt concepts like that register much with such a rampant hobbyist.
She’s dividing her attention between me and Alice, I notice, the latter of whom is trying very hard not to look like she hasn’t the damnest idea about where to stand in all this. Something’s off.
It’s around now that HH starts to sing, in what appears to be his best impression of Johnny Depp pretending to be Sweeney bloody Todd.
“Grannie don’t worry, your boy has come home, he’s ever so hungry, and his mouth so does foam, since you filled him with juice and then left him for dead, but the boy’s still a ticking and he’s AFTER YOUR HEAD!!”
Bravo, Rabbit Man.