Mr Lush S4E4 - Invictus

‘Just breathe in.’ 

Lush breathes in.

‘Just breathe out.’

Lush freaks out.

‘Oh, God’, he sighs to himself, having regained his lapsed faith, as he so often does in moments of crisis. ‘I must find my drunken Angel. I must call Mafalda.’

He pauses.

‘Do I even have her number?’

Another pause.

‘Am I in love? Or am I just so in need of attention that I will sit like a dog to heel for any woman that shows me the slightest bit of attention?’

Lush, ever the master of repression, locks that question in a wooden box next to the questions about his sexuality and the question of whether loafers are too formal for the beach.

‘Either way, I must call her.’

He feels an old familiar trickle of sweat pour down his forehead. The idea of being in love has always had this effect on Lush, since the first time he saw Lady Diana on television so many years ago. Perhaps that association is why Lush always thinks of love as a minefield. Another question for the box. He takes a deep breath.

‘I am the master of my fate.’

Thanking whatever god may be for his unconquerable soul, he formulates a plan. First, he will open the window. Then he will call down to reception for some painkillers and a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. Then a hot shower of a reasonable length with complimentary shampoo-and-soap-combo employed in unreasonable quantities. Finally, he will put on some freshly-laundered clothes.

‘I am the captain of my soul.’

Lush opens the window and is struck, hard, in the face by winds straight from the arctic tundra. He fights to close the window before hypothermia sets in. Next, he calls down to reception. No response to the first three calls. Eventually, a receptionist deigns to pick up the receiver.

‘Hello, Sir. How may I be of service?’, she asks, with an unmistakeable antelopean accent.

In response, our hero vomits into the waste paper basket next to his heart-shaped bed. This is less related to any prejudice against antelopes than it is to Lush’s weak constitution and heavy drinking. Before Lush can even begin with his effusive apologies, the receptionist responds.

‘Ah. Sir requires the lightweight package: One freshly-squeezed orange juice, one sparkling water, one package of electrolytes, two painkillers, and the chicken’s soup. Our chef, Mr Doodledoo, makes the finest soups in all of Berlin.’

Lush groans in agreement before dropping the phone somewhere near its station. He then slumps his way through the self-pity surrounding him towards the bathroom. He struggles out of his clothing feeling black as the pit from pole to pole before pouring himself into the shower. He instantly burns himself on the piping-hot water coming from the tap. Lush is unused to the conditions of the world outside London where water, of course, takes multiple minutes to heat up.

‘Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed.’

Lush crouches to get out of the shower, ready to begin his day.  DC/MM