Occasionally I’m naughty. Not very often, granted, because if I am, Matron denies me pictures of Kylie and weak lemon drink. Those and er… all my pills too. So I’m not often naughty.
But when I am – I’m sent to my naughty chair in room 47b of the asylum. It’s the room where Elvis gargles milk and there’s a rousing chorus of YMCA pipe music played over the tannoy system every 49 seconds. It’s enough to drive someone mad.
And when I’m on my naughty chair, I like to pretend to be even naughtier. I don’t think Matron has as many surveillance cameras set up in this room and I can be as naughty as I like.
Today I imagined what it must have been like to have been scandalous in 1963. Very naughty indeed.