Grumpy and aching from not having slept in my own bed I return to my rooms to freshen up and change. I can never be seen in the same outfit two days in a row, so I'm thankful I don't meet any Oompa-Loompas on the way.
I'm not feeling so hot today so I decide to dress all in black. I seem to be in a monochrome phase. I put on a short black renaissance style velvet jacket with a neck ruff and a pair of military style riding breeches, finishing it off with black leather gloves and knee-high black leather boots. With heels of course, all of my shoes have heels. I study myself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door for a moment. I feel so naked but a top hat simply wouldn't match my outfit. A bowler hat perhaps? Not perfect, and I don't like going out not looking perfect, but I can't stand exposing my head today, makes me feel so vulnerable. The hat is my business suit, I need it for going about the factory. I look incredibly pale, not that I ever look positively rosy, but today it's a sickly grey kind of pale. I decide it's the black clothes. I am not to wear black unless I want to look really interesting and brooding and severe. I guess I want to today. I'll simply have to find a suitable occupation for it.
I reckon seeing a doctor would count as a suitable occupation, considering my paleness and all.
I step into the glass elevator and press the button marked sanitarium. I almost lose my balance when the elevator accelerates. The sanitarium is a white corridor with rows of doors on both sides, doors to rooms for recovering patients, usually at least half-filled by Oompa-Loompas injured at work. It was a good thing I laid off human workers, else I would get my ass kicked in court for my working conditions I am sure…
I walk straight to the fancy door at the end of the corridor, the door with the brass sign reading "J. M. Charcot, doctor of medicine and personal physician of Mr Willy Wonka". The sign always makes me suppress a giggle and a lump in my throat simultaneously. I knock, and the door is opened by an Oompa-Loompa wearing a white doctor's coat on top of a very neat black suit.
"Do you have an appointment?" he asks me. I roll my eyes at this, not quite in the mood for joking, and he snickers and steps aside to let me in. Since this is a no-hat occasion, much like my therapy sessions, I hang my hat on the hook beside the door.
"What's bothering you today, Mr Wonka?" the doctor asks formally.
"I don't know," I reply irritably, "Just do the routine examination, will you."
He nods approval and points to the bunk clad with dull green latex. The white paper sheet rustles as I sit down on it, and the doctor approaches me with the words "Say aah."
"Do we have to do this every time?" I complain, but obediently open wide so that the doctor, standing on a portable metal ladder, can peer down my throat. My eyes dash all about the room in panic as he does so, and I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am when he is done. Next, he pulls out his stethoscope and asks me to remove my jacket so that he can listen properly. I snort but do as he says. I feel cold in my thin black shirt despite the high temperature in the factory, perhaps I am feverish? The doctor puts his stethoscope to my back and tells me to cough, which I do very delicately, almost like clearing my throat. The doctor goes hmmm, taps my back, at which I flinch, and listens some more. Then he sits in front of me and eyes me severely for a long while without speaking.
"I need you to take one drop of this each morning before breakfast, preferably in a glass of cold water, for, ahem, three weeks to begin with and then we'll see." he finally says, handing me an old fashioned brown medicine bottle of my own design. The green label reads "Wonka's Wondrous Tincture for Retrieving the Vital Spirits" in an elaborate black font.
"I also strongly suggest you to spend the rest of the day in bed," he continues, "Tomorrow after you have had your medication you may get up, provided you feel strong enough, but you mustn't over-exhaust yourself. I also advise you to try not to get over-excited since that would strain your already over-charged nerves and possibly result in a fit."
At the word "fit" I involuntarily open my eyes wide and decide to heed his words carefully.
"Perhaps I should start the medication right now?" I ask weakly, "Just to regain enough strength to retire to my residence."
"That's not a bad idea," says the doctor, "Three drops should do the trick, but do not exceed the prescription of one drop at a time again."
I nod my head and he brings me a glass of water. My hand is trembling slightly when I drip the medicine into the water, and I accidentally pour out four drops. I glance at the doctor to make sure he hasn't noticed, neither the trembling nor the overdosing. The tincture is the colour of iodide and spreads in the water like octopus ink. For a moment I almost forget everything else for the sheer beauty of it. When it's properly mixed I close my eyes and drink it down in one long gulp. I do not like the chilling feel of it inside and I hurriedly put my jacket back on, letting the medicine bottle slide into my pocket. Then I get up, retrieve my bowler hat and thank the doctor with a nod. As I walk down the corridor to the glass elevator, I actually lean on my cane for once.
I let the glass elevator bring me back to my rooms (the ride makes me nauseous), but decide against going to bed. I guess I could cash in a day's sleep in my own bed after my night in the terrific view room, but I doubt I'll sleep and I don't like the thought of laying awake in my bed during daytime. Instead I remove my hat and replace my jacket with a luxuriously thick and soft dressing gown in an oriental pattern of green and golden hues. I love this dressing gown, its golden belt even ends in tassels! I sit down in a leather chair in my hall and call for two Oompa-Loompas to pull the boots off my feet and replace them with slippers. Resting heavily on my cane I go into my lounge and lay down on the red velvet divan, draped with exclusive oriental cloths and pillows. An Oompa-Loompa covers my legs with a black mohair blanket, a second Oompa-Loompa brings me a small cup of hot chocolate and a bowl of grapes, and a third one tends the fire in the huge open fireplace, covered from my view by a screen with an intricate pattern of cut-outs to let the light and warmth through.
The divan is so low I can reach the tiger skin on the floor with my hand, and I stroke it slowly, back and forth, forth and back. Perhaps I should get a pet to stroke, a sleek black cat or a very well behaved silver grey greyhound? But pets litter. And shed hair which makes your nose tickle.
After about half an hour of rest I am seriously bored and call for the Oompa-Loompas to entertain me. Half a dozen of them come dancing in dressed in turbans and salwars and pointy slippers, waving sables dangerously close to my Ming vases and Pharaonic death masks. They sing a funny tune about a sultan who fell ill, poisoned by his arch enemy, but found a remedy in cocoa and executed his enemies in remarkably cruel and gory ways. In the finale one Oompa-Loompa stands triumphant while the others lay scattered "dead" across the room. I clap my hands and exclaim "Bravo!" Then I recall the doctor's words about not getting over-excited and let the corners of my mouth drop immediately. I dismiss the Oompa-Loompas, determined to read a book instead. Books don't come with singing and dancing and fancy costumes, except for imaginary ones of course, and those rarely get me over-excited.
I can't be bothered with dull books, so when I find some with interesting titles I have a group of Oompa-Loompas test reading them with an ever-growing list of qualities to look out for. This goes for films as well. The list is divided into two sections, positive qualities and negative qualities. On the positive qualities list there are things like "chocolate", "puns" and "dashing outfits to show my tailor", and on the negative qualities list there are things like "realism", "nudity" and "dentists". If the number of positive qualities outweights the number of negative ones the book or film ends up in my library, which I prefer torefer to as theliterary allusions room, if not, in the incinerator. I suspect the Oompa-Loompas sometimes keep the bad nuts for themselves, but I don't like that, I don't want low culture in between my factory walls.
I call for my librarian Oompa-Loompa to bring in my List of Books Yet to Read. On top of the list is Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter.
"Alright," I say, "I'll read it. I like circuses. Circuses and carnivals and freak shows. It better be good though."
The novel has me hooked all afternoon, and it's only icky in some places. When I go to bed in the early evening it has me dreaming about tigers on the Transsiberian Express. Ferocious fudge felines with chocolate streaks…