It's cold today. Frosty the Snowman came in the night, with his buddy Jack Frost, and had a pillow fight in the recreation room, spraying a dusting of white over everything.
Though white on the existing glaring white of the walls, floor and ceiling was a little redundant.
Their pillows, of course, were from that ice hotel up in Norway, or wherever it is. So they'd be ice pillows.
Yes, I know the pillows there are NOT made of frozen water, but for the purposes of this entry, let's just say they are. Frosty and Jack would have no real need for real, fluffy, feather-stuffed pillows, now would they?
Their frozen touch could be seen across almost every surface. The windows were almost opaque with a crystallised coating that seemed to resist any attempt to write your name or a random obscenity in. Hands were prone to stick to the metal arms of the chairs if you held on to it for too long, ignoring the burning cold sensation. Areas of the floor were alternatively slippery when wet or mini skating rinks and various residents tried out their non-existent skills with spins and leaps that left them in heaps against the walls.
Occasionally, there'd be the sound of a snap as the whirling wonder landed awkwardly and broke an ankle or wrist. The infirmary would be full by the end of the day.
Sitting in one corner, beneath the wall-mounted television set, was Connie.
Connie was a dear old dear who was just slightly nuttier than a nut. A peanut. Salty but you still couldn't get enough of her. She was a delightful woman who had not a single spiteful, hurtful or even slightly sinister thought in her head.
If, in fact, she had thoughts in her head.
Connie's particular delusion was obvious. It was a particularly peculiar parody of SAD. Seasonal Affected Disorder. Whereas most people became down in the dumps during the winter months, with a lack of both energy and enthusiasm dragging them into despair, Connie actually FELT the seasons. She BECAME them.
In spring, she was a budding flower. She would stand in a different spot each day, and she would, effectively, blossom. From a crunched ball, Connie would - excruciatingly slowly - unfurl. It would take hours for this to happen, and I couldn't understand how her joints wouldn't be aching or she'd walk with a permanent limp from the stiffness of holding odd positions for so long. But she didn't. In spring, there'd be a spring in her step, and that remained regardless of the season.
In summer, she decided beach play was the flavour to savour. An imaginary ball or frisbee would be thrown. Often, other residents would join in her play and once or twice a good dozen would be leaping or diving to catch thrown objects that weren't there.
I, myself, had won a tournament on a few weeks ago.
You do what you must to remain sane...
Today, it appeared, Connie had decided that, as Frosty and Jack had done their own brand of redecoration, it was winter. As such, it was also Christmas.
So she stood in the corner of the room, beneath the television's enduring onslaught of MTV. He arms were straight, at an angle down but away from her body. Her face was fixed. A smile. She had fashioned small stars and snowflakes from the toilet paper that Mucous Mickey always had with him and she'd hung them from various parts of her body.
A tissue angel was on her head, flopping forward, attempting to cover her face.
She was a Christmas tree.
How can you not smile? Not in a 'huh? Freak!' way, though. In a 'how wonderful' way. We're all, apparently, crazy in here, so no-one really cares what your daily doolally is. Rather than mumble in a chair all day or sit staring out of the window, however, Connie entertained, whether intentionally or not.
She was a Christmas tree. And I think that is nice.
It's cold today, but I can't help feeling warm.
