Inspired by Vivian Stanshall’s masterpiece “Sir Henry at Rawlinson End”

“Filth hounds of Hades!”
Sir Henry Rawlinson surfaced from the blackness, hot and fidgety, fuss, bother and itch, conscious mind coming up too fast for the bends, through pack-ice thrubbing seas, boom-sounders, blow-holes, harsh-croak Blind Pews tip-tap-tocking for escape from his pressing skull.
With a gaseous grunt he rolled away from the needle-cruel light acupuncuring his pickle-onion eyes, and with key-bending will slit-peered at the cold trench Florrie had left on her side of the bed. Tongue like yesterday’s fried cod: “Mind over batter? Tongue sandwiches? Bleah! Eat what? But it’s been in somebody else’s mouth!” Black spot! The Blind Pews were now thrashing with their canes. “God’s turban and tutu! Do I need a dare of the hog?”

He reached for the bellrope, yanked savagely to summon the housekeeper, and discovered himself, nighty round his waist, turned tortoise on the rug. Paralysis lasted… scarce a blink but with impotent rage he bellied his unwilling hulk to the wardrobe. Cold comfort, as his palsied hand found the shotgun. Good stock. “Roll over!” One action: commando stuff. “Cock over!” Safety off, both barrels through the ceiling. Stunned shock and then Henry’s eruptive bellow “Mrs. E!”. The plaster had not setted before the housekeeper stood lurcher-backed at-your-servile-sir in the room.
“Yes?” she said.
“I don’t know what I want but I want it now!”.