Any Umbrellas?

Today is the first day since being discharged from hospital that I’ve felt less energetic than the previous day. Enveloped in a veil of lethargy, currently my only desire is to rest in my recuperative slumber pit, attempting to try coax out that errant vitality.

Unlike in the nursery rhyme Hickory, Dickory, Dock, when casa Strachan’s clock struck one a mouse didn’t run down, it was my capricious energy levels that plummeted. I’ve been re-assured by a cardiac rehabilitation nurse that this is perfectly normal….. Both from the perspective of the occasional diminishment of verve during recovery and not expecting a mouse running down the clock when it strikes one.

Today’s apparent lack of recuperative progress has resulted in manifesting stirrings of impatience within GJ Strachan. A disenchantment at the seemingly sloth-like pace of the rehabilitation process. Thoughts I know to be futile, but nevertheless still notions unwelcomely residing in my conscious mind.

As an aside, during last night’s slumber I dreamt I was a panellist on TV show Through the Keyhole, hosted by it’s former presenter Loyd Grossman. During the dream the Massachusetts born compere incurring the panellists wrath by giving rubbish clues as to whose residence he was showcasing. Consequently, much to our frustration we were unable to identify any of the owners of the properties.

His utterly worthless pointers meant to help identify the celebrity who lived there including “The home’s resident has never met former Grandstand presenter Frank Bough.”, “This place is owned by someone whose allergic to penicillin.”, and while holding up a jar of the product in the owner’s kitchen “You can get Loyd Grossman cooking sauces from any reputable grocer.” 


It’s fair to say I’ve never a experienced a dream which incorporated such shameful product placement; not to mention, unhelpful clues towards guessing a celebrity house’s owner…… Well, apart from my vision of slumber when I was a panellist on the US version of Through the Keyhole hosted by ex-boxer George Foreman. During this show all three celebrity abodes were shamefully shown to have a George Foreman Grill in each of their many chambers.

On reflection, my dreams appear to incorporate an unacceptable amount of liberty taking when it comes to the product placement misdemeanours. God knows how, but a practise I need to banish from my night visions pronto.

According to my son, the night before my heart attack he actually dreamt it was going to happen. When he revealed this during a visit to see me in hospital, I wanted to mischievously remind him of the adage ‘Careful what you wish for’. However as he was distressed at my health scare I refrained from sharing the off-colour quip….. Well, until now anyhow!

It’s rare I remember the contents of my dreams, but in recent weeks I’ve been having vague recollections of sleep vision where I journey back to old haunts in Leeds, Gateshead and London.

Sojourns where I seem to wander aimlessly in search of something. I’ve no idea what I’m seeking in the dream, however I’d like to think my holy grail is the existential fulfilment that has thus far eluded me. That being said, though, it could just as easily be the contact lens I lost a month ago.


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