I first met President Trump in a ward at Lancaster Royal Infirmary. He sat sullenly in a chair by my bed as the nurse replaced my IV. The olanzapine had worn off a couple of days ago and I had started to conceive of a plan to finally introduce the world to the aliens that had been in psychic communication with me.
Later Trump got up and started barking orders at the medical staff. Apparently he was going to arrange a space ship to move me from this place to a situation room. His parting words to me were muttered in haste, saying that things would be ok if I just followed orders. I had mentioned my concern about his abortion issues, but he seemed uninterested, just saying he would get a drink for me as I had not been allowed to take any fluids for a few hours.
I was impressed by his patience—not the egoist I expected. Later it seemed that a security guard had sat down in Trump's seat and my mother soon arrived with a bag of spare clothes.
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