Guess it's about caring for one's health and I get into the herbal mode. All things herbal just yell for attention. Herbal tea, herbal pastes, herbal soaps and most of all, herbal herbs.


I also begin having herbal dreams. I dream of lying down in a row with other herbalists and huge funnels being pushed down our throats into which assorted herbal juices are poured. When our stomachs are full, they use hydraulic pumps to force in the stuff and our stomachs burst, one after another respectively, in an orderly manner. I wake up sweating, shivering and yelling but the fascination for herbs just keeps growing.


I stop taking ordinary food and rely mostly on herbs and my complexion begins to take on an herbal hue. Cows, goats and other vegetarian animals begin to exhibit a certain fondness for me which they demonstrate at first by sniffing and then by trying to gently nibble off my ears at which point I decide enough is enough and buy an ISO certified helmet.


I like the herbal hue but miss my baby complexion for which I had been so famous,  and seek my herbalist’s advice. According to his advice, I begin eating reddish herbs, beetroots and blood-red roses to offset the green and gradually my nose turns the color of a red, red rose, while the rest of the face remains emerald green, the reason for which was the cause for much conjecture, discussion and hilarity in the Scientific Herbalists Conference.


At the conference, herbalists from the four corners of the world and some from the middle examine me and ask me pointed questions about my food habits, my environment, my ancestry and many such things which I answer truthfully, to the best of my knowledge, without let or hindrance. They also want to know if photosynthesis was taking place in my body and if so from where I was getting the carbon-dioxide. One helpful herbalist brings a cylinder of carbon-dioxide and tries to push the tube up my nostril. But others dissuade him saying that other tests needed to be done before the photosynthesis test.


At the far end of the conference hall I see two bulls and a parrot.


Suddenly, without warning, the parrot flies in and lands on my head, and stands poised to peck at my red rose nose. A compassionate herbalist quickly grabs the parrot and wrings its neck. The bulls meanwhile are turning Spanish. They stand facing each other, spewing invectives, ready to charge in mortal combat and settle the matter once and for all and sundry.


“Both of them want you for lunch,” explained the compassionate herbalist. “All I can say is, may the best bull win.”


While the audience is captivated by the Challenge of the Bulls, I locate an anterior exit and quietly let myself out and run towards the airport camouflaged in a flowing head dress. And here I am in solitary, suspected of being a terrorist in herbal disguise.