{"id":12562,"date":"2024-11-26T19:27:33","date_gmt":"2024-11-26T18:27:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12562"},"modified":"2024-11-27T19:08:04","modified_gmt":"2024-11-27T18:08:04","slug":"the-brain-that-went-for-a-stroll","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12562","title":{"rendered":"The Brain that went for a Stroll"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"
Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m at my desk staring at a stack of forms waiting to be checked and captured on the system. It\u2019s a busy time of year. There are performance reviews coming up. I\u2019m right in the middle of a weekly stats call when it happens. I start retching. Something heavy is pushing on my tongue. Then to my astonishment, I go and vomit my brain onto the desk. I\u2019m about to ask what on earth is going on, when it slithers off, leaving my body behind like the peel of an overripe banana.<\/span><\/p>\n

Thankfully, nobody notices an adult-sized brain wobbling towards the staircase, with part of my spinal column dangling from it. Everyone is concentrating on completing their workplace assessments. Feeling queasy, I rest my empty head on the desk, drooling and burbling half-formed words.<\/span><\/p>\n

Lunchtime passes.<\/span><\/p>\n

The fire alarm goes off. Thankfully, it\u2019s just a test.<\/span><\/p>\n

Other than that, the day is uneventful. I get through it without any further mishaps, but when my brain slips back into my skull, I feel like I\u2019ve been cheated on.<\/span><\/p>\n

That evening, I sulk. I barely touch my baked beans on toast. It\u2019s only when I push my plate aside, I realise I\u2019ve been scratching the table with my fork.<\/span><\/p>\n

The landlord will be furious if he sees this. It\u2019ll be another of those maintenance jobs that he just hasn\u2019t time for. He\u2019s been forced to put the rent up twice this year. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, having to lay down the law all the time.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a grating, scratching noise. I\u2019m still doing it. I put my left hand on top of my right and examine the damage. The markings look like frowns piled on top of one another, or possibly hills far from the city. Surely, my brain couldn\u2019t travel out to the countryside without a valid bus pass.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I study my reflection in the fork.<\/span><\/p>\n

You start behaving yourself, I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s no answer, of course.<\/span><\/p>\n

Next morning, things go back to normal. My bus arrives late, but it\u2019s been late for years. If anything, it\u2019s reassuring. Routine is certainty. All these people wanting change can turn your stomach. The driver waves me on. There\u2019s no time for pleasantries. You have to appreciate his dedication to efficiency. I go up to my usual place, top deck window seat opposite the steps. From there, I can watch other passengers come and go while looking out the window. I\u2019m spoilt for choice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Upon reaching work, I\u2019m feeling restored. There’s the usual person on the steps outside, begging for change. Thankfully, they don’t notice me. Inside, my manager is doing his rounds \u2014inspecting the office for upturned bits of carpet, chairs that aren\u2019t up close to the desk, and stationary that\u2019s out of place. I smile at him \u2014 a little out of character for me. He stares at me until I go away.<\/span><\/p>\n

I reach my desk, which is by the lockers facing the lifts and staircase. I can watch my coworkers come and go, putting their bags in the lockers and later retrieving their bags from the lockers. It\u2019s brilliant, and it all happens without a word being spoken. There simply isn\u2019t the time. Anyway, I\u2019ve got work to do. There\u2019s a stack of forms in my in-tray, which have to be captured on the system in addition to catching up on any I failed to input the day before. There are appraisals coming up. Not to mention the annual training. The list goes on.<\/span><\/p>\n

It happens again.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mouth opens wider than it ever has, and my brain flumps onto the carpet. It slithers out of sight, leaving me collapsed at my desk, dribbling and babbling like some kind of baby. It doesn\u2019t return until after five in the evening. Thankfully, the cleaner hasn\u2019t tidied my work area in years.<\/span><\/p>\n

I realise I\u2019ve wet myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jesus Christ, I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s no answer, of course.<\/span><\/p>\n

I dash to the toilet and put my trousers under the hand dryer, watching with satisfaction as the dark patch fades. Then I exit the building to wait for the next bus. I\u2019ve missed my usual one, but fortunately we live in a democracy, and there are other buses. It\u2019s frightening how many people don\u2019t beam with pride when they speak of our public transport. Anyone who says the government doesn\u2019t bend over backwards for the people of this country wants shooting in the face.<\/span><\/p>\n

Later that evening, a bus arrives. I board and go up to my usual spot, but there\u2019s someone in it. I\u2019m so surprised, I almost sit in the poor bloke\u2019s lap.<\/span><\/p>\n

Apologies, fellow citizen. I am so used to sitting in that seat, I could scarcely believe someone else might ever take it.<\/span><\/p>\n

He eyes me narrowly.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I take another seat and try to zone out while someone behind me mutters gibberish at his reflection in the window. When I get home, I shower. After scrubbing myself clean, I wipe the steamed-up mirror to reveal my reflection.<\/span><\/p>\n

What was all that about? Leaving me like that, so I miss my usual bus and have to ride with all the nutcases.<\/span><\/p>\n

I go to the communal kitchen and microwave a tin of beans. The cooker hasn\u2019t worked in years, but I don\u2019t trouble the landlord with it. I\u2019m not petty. He has more than a dozen of these properties and can\u2019t go around fixing every little thing. Besides, I\u2019m not a child, the microwave suits me fine. If anything, it\u2019s much quicker than a cooker, and I like watching my food spin round and round.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve barely touched my beans when I hear scratching again. This time, there are all these wavy lines, like expressions of confusion, or possibly waves. The nearest beach must be thirty miles away. Could my brain have gone all the way to the beach without even taking sun cream?<\/span><\/p>\n

I consider calling the doctor, but you can\u2019t expect to get an appointment at the drop of a hat these days. I phone the bank. I\u2019ve found their call centre staff to be immensely friendly before.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s only forty minutes before I get through to someone. They are quite surprised when I describe the issues I\u2019m having. I press them further, and they say I might benefit from a change. What a lovely idea. I thank the person most profusely. Whoever says banking call centres are a waste of time wants strapping to an electric fence in the pouring rain.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next morning, my manager is busy inspecting the carpet for any creases or potential trip hazards. There simply hasn\u2019t been the time for cordial greetings before, so I decide that there is no time like the present.<\/span><\/p>\n

Isn\u2019t it a lovely day?<\/span><\/p>\n

He jolts upright and stares until I take my place at my desk. I get on with inputting the forms from my in-tray into the database. Thankfully, there are no mishaps. At lunchtime, I decide to treat myself to a supermarket meal deal. I don\u2019t like having to confront a shopworker to get my food. Automated checkouts are a monument to modernity. This country is blessed with brilliant supermarkets. I\u2019ve heard that, in the United States, there are supermarkets even bigger than ours. I\u2019d like to see that!<\/span><\/p>\n

I scoff my sandwiches on the way back to the office. I don\u2019t want to take longer than the allotted thirty minutes for lunch. People who do that are destroying society. We need the framework of routine to hold ourselves together, otherwise, things get frightening.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Spare any change, a distant voice says.<\/span><\/p>\n

Staring ahead, I flash a resigned grin. After all, they could have been asking someone else; it\u2019s a busy square.<\/span><\/p>\n

I get back to my desk more determined than ever and make my way through a stack of forms in my in-tray. Next thing, it\u2019s dark. The office is deserted. I look up at the clock. It\u2019s half past seven. The building would be locked by now. I can\u2019t go bothering the facilities team to come and open up just to let me out. Who do I think I am? Royalty? Not that I think the royals get special treatment. They work hard, and if it wasn\u2019t for them, we\u2019d have someone like Jamie Oliver as our head of state. Not that I\u2019ve got anything against Jamie Oliver either; he\u2019s done a lot for the kids of this country, and anyone who doesn\u2019t like his pizza restaurants wants flinging in a vat of acid.<\/span><\/p>\n

I decide on bedding down in the office for the night. I couldn\u2019t believe the idea hadn\u2019t occurred to me before. They must have paid good money to furnish the place. The carpet is comfortable. My sleep is blissful. Anyone who hasn\u2019t slept on the floor of their office is, quite frankly, a degenerate who should be cut from your life. I wake the next day feeling ten feet tall. I\u2019m not even fazed when I realise it\u2019s Saturday and the place is shut until Monday.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t plan to bother anyone about it, not least because weekends are sacrosanct. People just want to be left well alone. Besides, the office is a perfect place to spend a weekend. There\u2019s running water, work to do, and if I\u2019m hungry, I can eat the plants. There’s a stack of forms just waiting to be inputted into the database, and if anyone is up to the task, it\u2019s me. I set to work. I really go for it. I\u2019m blitzing through them.\u00a0And this time, when my brain leaves my body, I\u2019m in such a frenzy that I follow it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, it\u2019s far from easy to chase your brain through an elegantly furnished office.\u00a0It just wobbles its way through the maze of desks and empty chairs, not even stopping to peruse the whiteboard with the monthly stats. Without strength in my arms, I sort of writhe and wriggle, dragging myself along the floor to avoid causing injury. People who go around injuring themselves on a weekend have absolutely no consideration for those who are then expected to go around picking up the pieces. I haven\u2019t gotten far before I need to catch my breath. Meanwhile, my brain flops out of a small window that opens whenever the building reaches a certain temperature.\u00a0The things they can do with technology is amazing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Exhausted, I roll onto my back and take in my surroundings. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019ve not taken the time to do so before. Ours is a modern building, airy, and full of light. The floor-to-ceiling windows are a real treat. A workplace ought to be inspiring. Our third-floor office affords views over the rooftops of smaller residential buildings whose rooftiles are bathed in the orange glow of the morning sun. It\u2019s promising to be a corker of a day, and I\u2019m privileged to be able to appreciate it from the comfort of the office floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

I catch a glimpse of my brain suspended on the window ledge, metres above the busy road, its pulpy pinkish mass contrasting against a vast expanse of clear blue sky. Concentrating as hard as I can, I try to coax it back inside. I hold my breath and strain until I can feel the electrical current of universal being coursing through me. I imagine that I am an infinite eyeball, seeing into forever. I imagine that I\u2019m omniscient and capable of communicating with the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then it drops.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t see it landing. I just hear a car swerve and another slamming on the brakes. It hits the tarmac with the sound of a lettuce being whacked with a cricket bat. Someone screams. There is a general sense of commotion.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then I sort of black out.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

____<\/p>\n

John O\u2019Hare is an artist and writer based in Bristol. His work explores the trauma of post-industrial decline and its impact upon mental health. Recent publications include Fleas on the Dog, Poetry Lighthouse, Writers and Readers Magazine, Songs of Revolution by Sunday Mornings at the River Press, Inheritance by Late Britain Press, and Urban Photography by Collect Art.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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