It’d be fair to observe that prevailing global events adorn a hat named darkly surreal. In varying degrees of severity, these day terrors tainting most of human existences worldwide. This unchartered landscape, impacting everyone’s lives in such epic proportions that if experienced during night terrors would be disregarded as too fantastical to countenance as possible.
Last night, during a sleep vision I’d a similarly peculiar varying from life’s status quo, Nighttime hallucinations which hopefully won’t manifest themselves any time soon.
This nightmare played out in a Orwellian police state post-coronavirus backdrop. A canvas of stringent, zero tolerance governmental edicts designed to ensure the proletariat learn from their selfish actions during the pandemic in early 2020. An ideology whose objectives bore an unashamed mission statement of “You’ll Do As Your F***ing Told!”
This new world, which manifested vividly during my slumber, so controlling I was handed police caution for wearing my underpants adorning the wording Tuesday, when the day playing out was a Wednesday.
I’d no idea how the authorities got wind of this undergarment faux pas, but arguing with an 8ft robot policeman about the harshness of the new legislation seemed inadvisable. Consequently, after being frog marched to the ATM, I paid my fine. However, only after the lanky animatronic copper reminded me of the PIN number I’d momentarily forgotten in my fluster.
With the 8ft cops barked advice of “Now get off home, son!….. And next time take more bloody care when you dress in the morning!”, I left the police station. Heading towards. home, where I planned to hastily swap into my boxer shorts labelled Wednesday.
As this worrying dream played out further, on arriving at my mums home (where I currently reside), on walking through the front door, witnessing my earlier arrest, she enquired loudly from the lounge “What did the police want?!”
“I’ll tell you in a minute, mum!” I responded before dashing upstairs to swap my undergarments.
After a few minutes of opening and slamming bedroom drawers, along with a flustered rummage around the airing cupboard, I dashed down the staircase, coming to stop in the lounge where mater was armchair in situ.
In agitated tones, I asked with panic “Have you seen my Wednesday boxer shorts, mum?!”
“Yes!” she responded, with an evident look of concern as to why her eldest child looked so confounded.
“Where are they?!” I gasped so quickly it emanated from my mouth as one word. My ramping up of the melodrama a notch borne from a need to get the old lady to put some urgency into this situation.
“They’re in the wash, Gary?!….. Why what’s wrong?….. You’re faces gone red and veins are appearing on your temples!” the old lady inquired.
“In the wash!” I exclaimed in panic. Before in similar flustered tones adding “In the wash?….. They can’t be in the wash!!…… I’ve not worn them for a week!!”
“No you wore them yesterday?!…… I can’t turn around the laundry that quick!” she calmly informed me, clearly no-plussed at proceedings.
“Thats impossible!” I concluded, panic stricken at remaining liable to arrest for repeat underwear crime. “Why would I wear Wednesday’s undies on a Tuesday?!” I idiotically continued the inquisition. The attempted deflection of blame towards my mum being somehow culpable, despite knowing full well how this narrative was playing out, ignoble in the extreme.
“I don’t know!….. But you did……. Unless you put them in the laundry basket on Tuesday evening without wearing them. Which is unlikely” she observed, visage still exhibiting bafflement.
As my night terror continued, the next scene witnessed me arriving upon an even higher plateau of panic.
“Well, I need the Wednesday shorts sooner rather than later!” yours truly uttered in consternation.
“Why?…… What the hell’s going on, Gary!” mater demanded answers to my current frenzied behaviour.
“It’s illegal to wear boxers which contradict the actually day it advertises!” I endeavoured to clarify.
“What the hell are you talking about, Gary?…. There’s no laws dictating when you’re allowed to wear specific boxer shorts!” mother argued disparagingly.
“There is now in post-pandemic Britain!….. That’s why I was hauled down the police station……. They got wind I’d inadvertently adorned Tuesday’s briefs today (Wednesday).” I attempted to clarify further in dismay.
“Bloody hell, I knew they were clamping down, but didn’t realise they were becoming as stringent as that!” mum blurted in surprise. Prior to adding “Well you’re going to have to wait until they come out of the washer and dry!”
“I need them now mum!” I panicked. “I don’t know how, but authorities are monitoring us very closely…. Can you not stop the wash, squeeze out any excess water and iron them dry?” I pleaded.
Just as mum started her barked response of “If you think I’m gonna……”, the doorbell rang.
Upon opening the front door, I was greeted by the vision of the aforementioned 8ft robotic cop. Removing handcuffs from his uniform, he proffered “Would you like to escort me down to the station, Mr Strachan?!…… Some people’ll never bloody learn, will they!”
Leading me down the drive to his police van, the giant robot rozzer turned to inform my mum “Don’t expect to see him within the next two years, Mrs Strachan!”
Sweating profusely, I woke from my nightmare at this point. On realising this whole bizarre tail was merely a dream, I emitted a huge sigh. Climbing out of bed with renewed spring following this realisation, yours truly headed to the wardrobe and drawers to select today’s attire.
Moments later, donning the football shorts I’d slept in, I opened my bedroom door and from the landing yelled in a panic “Mum!!…. Mum!!…. Do you know where my Tuesday boxer shorts are?!”
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org