So far I haven't been picked up by the fuzz, but an open admission before that happens may be best. I want to put my side of the story to you, Judge Judy, and members of the Universal Jury.
We know that the villain Brian has been stirring while Avastin was delayed. To save the trouble of going all the way to Tamworth for an MRI, I had the brilliant idea of sticking my head on the scanner, turning the light up to max volume as it were, and doing a few quick brain scans. As you do… except that other people expose their buttocks on the office photocopier instead. Or used to, before these digital days of succumbing to the unwisdom of iPhone camera shots they deny sending to anyone later. Ho ho.
I declare that I did not sit butt-naked on the scanner, but the idea seems to have worked a treat. This image below is inside my brain. A strange apparition at the spot where Brian resides appeared on the screen.
I hereby tender this as Exhibit A. Just file that image away on the back burner, where many other mixed metaphors reside.
I have a Graduation Duck. Doesn't everyone? No? Well, in order to pump up my veins for the Avastin infusion, I squeeze my duck vigorously. It seems to work. No smirking, thank you.
I submit this image of my duck in pristine condition as Exhibit B.
On the night of 14 June 2012, I had a series of seizures, many located in the fingers of my right hand.
During such seizures, my hand always wants to claw up like talons, clenching and unclenching. Members of the Jury, it's tiring and it hurts. These, I contend, are mitigating circumstances even if you don't come up with the right verdict, but I know you will. I can see that you're not only the best-looking jury I've stood before – and I've been before many juries in my time – but wisdom and high intelligence shine from your sparkling eyes.
Yes, Your Highness, Judge Judy, I return now to the matter at hand.
"Get me the Graduation Duck," I commanded Tracey as my fingers flexed and fist clenched. Ordering people about is a rare privilege extended to those having focal seizures at the time; in this house, anyway, though it doesn't last long. My ordering anyone about, I mean.
"If I can get these fingers round the duck, they can squeeze and unsqueeze and not claw up any worse than they are now."
It was a theory. When you're having a seizure, practically anything novel seems like a good idea and takes your mind off the sensation that your knuckles are going to explode.
With commendable speed, Tracey brought Ducky.
"Put the duck in my hand when my fist opens," I said.
The attempt was not that successful. Oh, we got it in there all right – nothing wrong with the timing – but like a baby refusing a spoonful of mush, an apparently furious Brian refused to cooperate and kept spitting it out. Not that the mongrel ever has cooperated in any way before. The Grad Duck's head kept getting in the way no matter what.
The twisting, contorted fingers then responded to Brian's command – note: Brian's command – and suddenly, a cruel and unusual event took place.
It was reminiscent of an incident inspiring my nephew Scott's awe when he was about three years old, relating to the chook scheduled for the dinner table that evening. With a deft stroke of the axe, his father had just sent the hen to Jesus, leaving what was needed behind for the evening meal, plus the feathers. Scotto, in high excitement, raced inside to tell his mother:
"Mum! Chookie off his head! Quick. Come and look."
My sister was not keen. She had witnessed quite a few executions of a similar type on our farm when we were kids, and the thrill and novelty of seeing headless chooks running around had long worn off.
Judge Judy is getting fidgety again. OK.
You can see below the result of the evil Brian's handiwork. Ducky, I sadly report, was off his head as well, its having been ripped savagely from its tortured, contorted body by... well, it's true... my very own fingers.
WARNING: Graphic violence in image shown below.
I further submit these more enhanced pictures of Brian for your consideration. I believe that the likeness to a certain other alleged bird-fancier to be no accident and, I have no doubt, supports my testimony, as long as you don't delve too deeply into rock legend's real history.
I rest my case.