Domestic Bliss

 I stared out at the uniformly grey skies with disapproval.  A long weekend was approaching and the weather was being distinctly uncooperative.  At least it was being distinctly uncooperative if you had planned to go out over the weekend.  For those of us whose plans extended more in a lying languidly on a couch direction it wasn't bad at all.  So why the disapproval in my stare?  If the weather was poor none of my flatmates would go out either and I would be stuck with them all weekend.  I extended my stare of disfavour to the platypus.

"Surely you enjoy weather like this?  Shouldn't you be paddling down a stream somewhere?"

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I withdraw my question."

"I hate weather like this," said the plague doctor.  "Do you know how difficult it is to get bat guano ash when the damn stuff won't catch fire?"

"I'm getting increasingly uncertain about putting you in charge of my recovery," I noted.

"Nonsense, your humours have never been so well balanced.  And your black bile is way down."

"What does that have to do with cancer?"

"It's good news whatever star sign you are?"

"And I'm getting pretty sick of all the leeches."

"Have you tried them with garlic?" asked the spider.

"What are you even doing here?  I thought you were nocturnal."

"I am, this is just a late night."

"It's 2pm in the afternoon."

"Okay a very late night."

"Where's the puffin, I'll be he'd enjoy this weather."

"He's passed out on the kitchen floor in a pool of cleaning fluid," replied the spider.

"Oh god, has he ODed again?"

"No, he slipped on it and banged his head."

"I didn't hear anything, when did that happen?"

"Tuesday."

"Should we go and see if he's all right?"

A brief vote was taken.  An objection was lodged, a recount was made, an amendment to our constitution suggested and a threat of bloody insurrection was defused.  Eventually we approached the kitchen.  The puffin was had recovered consciousness but was suffering from dizzy spells, wild mood swings, hallucinations and fits of paranoia.

"He needs psychiatric help," I muttered.

"He needs bleeding," countered the plague doctor.

"If all that meant you needed psychiatric help you would have been committed years ago," pointed out the platypus a little unnecessarily in my opinion.

"My mental state is just fine," responded with dignity.

"Brave words from a man conducting a conversation with a bunch of plush toys," retorted the puffin.  I began regretting coming to see if he was all right.  I took charge.

"Right you lot.  I'm sick of being cooped up here with you.  I want you all out of here for the weekend.  I don't care where you go or what you do but I don't want to see you before Tuesday."  I looked around to find that I had been addressing an empty room.  The spider was curled up on my pillow asleep and the platypus and the plague doctor were in the lounge room arguing over the TV remote.  Bizarrely since neither of them knew how to use it.  The puffin was on the phone to his dealer trying to trade his body for a box of Omo.  I gave up, besides it was almost time for my latest dose of leeches.  Perhaps I would try them with garlic this time.