An Altered State

Ah lempsip.  You taste so foul, you look so sickly, you always have that odd residue of disgusting grunge at the bottom of the mug.  You are, basically, little more than orange juice and paracetamol, with some extra uch factor thrown in.  I loathe lempsip.  And yet how I would have got through this production period without it?

Although, before this becomes a commercial, let me add… despite the medication, the going-to-bed-promptly, the huddling down beneath my duvet and general attitude of all-hatches-fastened-down that I’ve been adopting I am still horribly, deleriously ill.  Ah lempsip!  How much more would I love you if, having drunk a mug in the morning, I didn’t find myself looping round the room singing (hoarsely) some twenty minutes later as the full force of your chemical cocktail struck?  And on this note – ah, panadol plus!  How much more time I would have for you if a single pill didn’t reduce me to uncontrollable, hysterical giggling in a corner?  If just one of your shiny capsules didn’t cause me to collapse in a corner laughing until I cried, even as snot swam around my head and my ears popped from the strain?  Oh paracetamol.  You are so useful in combatting the relentless pulsing in the synases and yet, during a technical rehearsal, could you perhaps try, oh paracetamol, not to send me straight to sleep?  If we could somehow fuse the singing of lempsip with the drowsiness of paracetamol with the hysterical cackling of panadol plus, how much easier this week would be…