In the curtained ward, the flat man makes his rounds, resplendent in his tailored scrubs, gesturing with his clipboard and his Montblanc pen. He doesn’t write – can he write? – but it’s all about the iconography and performance. Like the Doctor of Physic’s flask in the Ellesmere Chaucer? I suggest, though the reference is lost and, besides, I’m locked on mute because, of course, I’m not in the ward with the flat man, his team of consultants, and the visiting dignities, who are all nodding and tutting at the latex manikin laid out on the gleaming gurney. Or like a monkey on a misericord? I say to my empty cell, for the simple pleasure of alliteration, and I sigh for the old days and the trustworthy hush of libraries. One of the visitors enquires about the absence of flesh-and-blood humans, with their inconvenient aches, pains, and emergencies, raising the matter that’s been on all of our disenfranchised minds. That’s a really, really good question, acknowledges the flat man, and his brown eyes focus on a shining glass tower that only he can see. Just look at the quality of these curtains, he says, rolling the silk lovingly between his index finger and thumb.
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Oz Hardwick
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