One of the useful things I do (useful for me - in global terms it's about as useful as a chocolate teapot) is keep a notebook by the side of my bed. It's a six year old office diary - not that that has anything to do with anything. Sometimes I will wake up in the morning with the vague remembrance of having had an interesting idea during the night but no memory of what that idea actually was.
Occasionally I will wake up and find I've already written it down.
Last night, after a particularly harrowing nightmare which I spent perched on top of a shop door, having being chased there by a particularly huge Alsation dog, while explaining to its shaven headed, no-necked monster of an owner that I hadn't said I hated musical theatre, just that I didn't understand it, and, if he sang me a couple of songs and called off the dog, I might change my mind.
Somehow, during this insanely gay anxiety dream (somewhere between this no-neck monster - and possibly the dog - singing me highlights from Kismet and West Side Story while I clung to the Exit light) I wrote down this:
Occasionally I will wake up and find I've already written it down.
Last night, after a particularly harrowing nightmare which I spent perched on top of a shop door, having being chased there by a particularly huge Alsation dog, while explaining to its shaven headed, no-necked monster of an owner that I hadn't said I hated musical theatre, just that I didn't understand it, and, if he sang me a couple of songs and called off the dog, I might change my mind.
Somehow, during this insanely gay anxiety dream (somewhere between this no-neck monster - and possibly the dog - singing me highlights from Kismet and West Side Story while I clung to the Exit light) I wrote down this:
Dream 3/1/08Public school. High Victorian Gothic hall assembly. Hymns have been sung, lessons read. The headmaster (Think John Cleese) starts to make announcements.
"After Prep on Tuesday several buns were taken from Matron's tea trolley. I'm not going to name any names - but those responsible know who they are!"
At the back of the hall a pubescent boy in short trousers is having an identity crisis.
"I don't know who I am! Who am I? What is the meaning of my existence if I have no identity?"
"Shut up Blenkinsop Minor, you frightful little tick," hisses the boy's taller neighbour. "You're still in shorts. Leave the existentialism till you're in the Remove like me and have a few pimples before you start on the philosophy."
"No, but you don't understand. I really don't know who I am. Last thing I remember is snaffling a few magic buns from matron's trolley and the next thing..."
"Aha!" Screams the headmaster, leaping from the stage his cane waving wildly above his head. "Got you, you little bastard!"
For some reason this seemed incredibly hilarious at whatever ungodly hour of the morning I wrote it down. Does everyone do this? or is it just me?
1 comment:
It's funny.
Can I have a chocolate teapot now?
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