I have been party to some weirdly vivid dreams of late. My slumber zeitgeist incorporating a series of surreal episodes playing out with an audioscape of Joe Dolce’s 1980s novelty record ‘Shut Uppa Your Face’. Last night a further occasion of experiencing these idiosyncratic plotlines.
The opening scene in my overnight dream sequence seeing me bump into my estranged wife’s sister (Sue) and her husband in a B&M store. As my separation from her sibling was not an amicable arrangement, even though it only took place in night vision, I found this unscheduled meeting uncomfortable.
My discomfort augmented by my ex-sister in laws persisted responses of “F*** off!” to every conciliatory utterance I submitted. Her behaviour indicating to yours truly she has not forgiven me for leaving her sister five years ago… Yes, I am perceptive that way.
Actually, in the dream Sue bore a speech anomaly whereby she pronounced the letter ‘f’ as ‘th’, and vice-versa. Consequently, it was the term “Thuck off.” she habitually exclaimed at me during our ‘conversation’.
Personally. I thought her confrontational barks unnecessary; opining Joe Dolce’s less brisk “Shut Uppa Your Face.” would have been a more proportionate signal that she had no wish to converse with me.
Her husband, who never really warmed to my incessant piss taking, seemed a lot friendlier towards me than when I last met him over five years ago.
Upon us meeting he greeted me with a smile before producing a used pack of cards from his pocket.
“Pick a card.” He urged cordially.
After I had taken one from as close to the middle of the fanned pack as I could I was urged
“Look and memorise it.”
Loving a good card trick, I obliged. To my surprise, though, when looking at the chosen card II was greeted by a list of telephone numbers for Nottinghamshire food outlets (he lives in Newark). Not one of the standard 52 playing cards.
“Why have you given me this list of numbers?”
“Well, I thought they might come in handy if you felt a bit peckish while driving through Nottinghamshire.”
Underwhelmed by his ‘card trick’ and with no plans to venture Notts way soon, I had the urge to tear up the card in front of him. However, as he uncharacteristically meant well, I resisted that show of ingratitude. Instead slipping the card into my back pocket to ‘file’ in my bin at a later stage.
At this point Simon took off the beany hat he’d been wearing in my dream. The fifty something fella keen to show me his wounds from being recently scalping by Sioux Indians on Retford High Street.
After his head gained liberty from his headwear, I became engrossed by the flap on his head (a wound from the unprovoked attack) eerily opening and closing like a halibut saying the word “Sausage!”
As hard as I tried, I was unable not to stare at his fluttering pate. His wife clocking my fascination with her spouse’s injury admonished me with “Stop thucking looking at his bouncing bonce! … You never seen a thlapping thorehead before?!”
Freaked out by this open wound, and not wishing to endure his wife’s hostility a moment longer, I bode them farewell with a disingenuous good wish.
As my slumber storyline continued, it was not long before I bumped into an old acquaintance who I’d not seen for a while. A Walter Mitty type character, he greeted me cordially prior to advising he had moved up in the world career-wise. His new work title the Head of Colonic Irrigation for a well know pizza franchise.
As his far-fetched mendacious gambits are usually spouted to manifest envy in the listener, I thought this an odd fib. I mean why would you brag about securing such a weird role?!… And, perhaps more importantly, why would a pizza franchise need a Head of Colonic Irrigation within their management structure?
Not wanting further details of his role remit, I wished him well and headed towards a mountain range on the distant horizon. While walking away I heard the distant sound of my Walter Mitty-esque friend shouting “If you ever need your colon cleaning give me a shout, Gaz!… We’ve got a 2 for 1 offer on at the moment!!”
Anyhow, my dream sequence did not end at that point. The plotline morphing from the confrontational and absurd into the jeopardous. Me now finding myself hundreds of feet up a mountain ridge; clinging on dearly with outstretched hands to avoid plummeting hundreds of feet to the rocks below.
Beside me also hanging on by his fingertips was my brother Ian. I have no recollection how my younger sibling and I ended up in such a precarious situation; however, I would venture, as in our waking hours, it would involve a hare-brained scheme and alcohol.
On the other side of our kid was our long-term mate, Darrin. Not the upbeat, switched on and high-flying individual he is now in middle-age. No, in the dream Darrin was the angst ridden, glass half empty version from his late teens. A lad who, during a blood test as a 19-year-old, tested positive for being negative.
Ian and my buddy’s downbeat night vision machinations dampening our already stark mood, as we hung precariously by our fingertips.
Mercifully, I was able to utter some words of comfort to Darrin, talking him out of letting go and plummeting onto the rocks below by highlighting he has got something to look forward to… He and our kid are going for their ‘2 for 1’ colonic irrigations next Thursday.
