Vince stood outside the hospital, wondering whether to walk home. It wasn't that far, and the walk would at least, be some kind of exercise, seen as all Naboo and Howard had been cooking was fry-ups and chips, doing backstrokes in their own oil, saying he needed to "fatten up". As if.
The wind had picked up considerably and cut straight through his battered old jacket. It was still winter and he should have dressed a little more appropriately but appearance still remained a priority, despite how god-awful his reflection was. Besides, the walk back wasn't that far, maybe a few miles. Nobody would mind and it'd save the glares of the people on the bus. He started walking.
It was almost 2 months since he had actually been out, unaccompanied and actually on his own, almost missing the common sights of the less touristy side of London. A gaggle of nurses stood just outside the hospital gates shivering and smoking, ash soiling their neat blue uniforms. A drunken tramp was loitering in the gutter and a group of overly bright teenage girls shimmied past, still clinging to the Christmas vibes by wearing pieces of tinsel. It all made his 'problems' look tiny in comparison. People still carried on existing. Maybe it wasn't that important at all.
Vince fumbled in his pocket, plucking out the parchment-paper slip Dr Powell had given him, under strict instruction that he did not read it and give it straight to Naboo. It stunk of the small dried jasmine flowers glued to it and looked a little too informal to be professional in nature, but unable to resist curiosity, he unfurled it and ...found nothing but a blank sheet with a complex signature. It was probably a prescription of some kind, written in invisible ink, to make sure he didn't somehow get hold of the drugs and try to overdose. Again.
The strange thing was however, that he had left the hospital feeling strangely better, even though this time all the actual "therapy" consisted of was writing down his troubles on a piece of paper and setting it alight. There was a complex reason behind doing this, but Vince had not really been listening to it, and was instead wondering if one of the pieces of fabric on the wall could somehow be fashioned into a jacket. By now, he was almost back in Camden, the familiar smell of greasy food and popcorn and sweets drifting along with the bitter breeze, still repulsing him as much as ever. Maybe a psychologist can't solve everything, no matter how unconventional they are. Still. There's nothing wrong with watching what you eat...
The shops were now getting more familiar. Eliza, who owned the vast, technicolor belt stand waved at him distractedly, whilst jabbing her teenage daughter with a broom handle, and yelling at her in Russian to unpack stock quicker. Everything seemed to have changed in a few short weeks? Months?
Finally stopping at and small off-license, Vince stepped inside, fishing the crumbling fiver from his pocket and brushing the drizzle from his jacket. The elderly man behind the counter waved, even though he was blind, then went back to 'watching' the small portable television, where Bill Oddie, the well known human version of a small conifer, was rambling on about robins or whatever. He squatted down by the rows of neon alcohol in glistening, twisted bottles, eventually selecting one that proclaimed it was blueberry flavoured, although it looked closer to 'fluorescent marker pen'. Putting a fiver on the front desk, he edged around the huge Alsatian-come-draught excluder that had decided to make an appearance and stepped out into the street once more, where sleet had begun to fall steadily. Vince pulled his already sodden jacket around him and began to quickly walk back, not particularly wanting to get completely soaked. He was trying to think whether to plan a small party for new years eve, which was upon them once again, when his thoughts were interrupted by the arrogant trill of his mobile. The name flashed up on screen as "Howard – mobile". Probably checking up on him. He felt a sudden, unexplainable anger, and although was considering answering it anyway, it suddenly rang off.
"He's not answering!" Muttered Howard from the sofa, whilst Melinda curled next to him, idly flicking through the television channels. "Relax; he's probably shopping or something." She yawned, settling for Changing Rooms and falling back further into the cushions. "He was supposed to be back three hours ago! His session finished at eleven!" He exclaimed, standing up suddenly. Mel glared up at him heatedly. "It's only half eleven. It's not long past rush-hour and he's on a flaming bus. Relax." She sighed a little, then smiled, seemingly genuine. "Look, lets see what film and stuff are on. Its no use worrying about him, cos it wont make him come back any faster, and the last thing you want to do is suffocate him. I'll get the TV mag." She said calmly, leaning over the chair arm and grabbing the said item, and also quickly but efficiently unplugging the phone...
Gah, right. Sorry this took ages, but alas, i've had exams and coursework and then Christmas crept up on me. So yeah.Please review!