Tuesday, May 31, 2005
I reach a restaurant where the owner is outside talking to a builder. They are discussing the sign over the door. The owner tells the builder that he's been waiting for the new sign for six weeks. The builder says that the sign company's just trying to get more money out of him by hanging on.
I lose sight of my car forever... the bastard won!
posted by Vernon
Monday, May 30, 2005
Now I do quite like Mrs Ginnell in real life, but why did I have to tell Mrs B about my dream? Nearly spoilt my holiday that did.
posted by backroads.
When I try to print the list, it comes out either enlarged and cropped or as a miniscule screenshot. This happens several times. I am aware that I'm in a dream loop and tell myself to snap out of it and move on.
I then realize that I can't move because my son has squeezed into bed and I'm pinned between him and Mr B. When I reach around to pick up my son and take him back to his own bed, I feel his pyjamas are wet. Oh no!
But it's sticky and I immediately realize that he's had his usual midnight snack of yoghurt and spilled half the pot over himself.
When I get back into bed, I close my eyes and print out the list without problem. But I am confused why Eric Donaldson's Stand Up and Scotty's Draw Your Brakes are not in the top ten.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
As we sit there, it starts happening again. I try to will myself to be calm, but my heartbeat speeds up until it is at least twice the normal rate. After the episode is over, the doctor tells me to keep an eye on it and cuts me loose.
Later in the night I dream that I am keeping pigs and that one of them has gotten loose. In the imaginary version of my town, there is an actual little downtown with lots of businesses, not just a meat-and-three and a corner store. I am driving around looking for the pig and I spot it as I pass my house. But then I miss the driveway and have to turn around in a driveway downtown. It is a major hassle and by the time I get back to my driveway, I can't see the pig anymore.
I wake up, appropriately enough, with my heart pounding.
I step forward, and acknowledge the adulation of the feavered audience which stands before me.
It’s all going well, as I seamlessly blend into the tightly-rehearsed performance amidst the seasoned professionals beside me.
I twist, I turn, I do the jiggy-jiggy, I glitz a smile at opportune moments and split-second synchronise my hand-moves with my colleagues.
My fans, young and old, male and female, straight and gay, are all lapping it up.
Until, that is, my subconscious takes over: Reminding me I can’t sing. Reminding me I can’t dance. Reminding me I don’t possess an ounce of discernable talent.
Which my audience, but moments ago exuding such awe, recognise as I freeze, their awe quickly turning to disgust.
I’m not in my element at all. I’m just a twat who had drunk far too much.
I awake, mopping my cold, alcohol-ridden sweat as I realise my dream is in fact not reality.
But, like many of my dreams, is in fact a twisted, distorted smorgasbord of recent events: some significant, most less so.
And was why I decided there and then that would be the first and last time I should go and see ‘Steps’ play live.
Written hastily by Unlucky man.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
In my dream, I work on a trading floor. It is busy. There are people everywhere, dressed in coloured overcoats and caps, all communicating to people up in the galleries in a bizarre sign-language that I don't understand. Amongst the mayhem, I spot someone doing the routine to 'Tragedy' by Steps - he is doing this to make someone laugh up in one of the galleries, which I know is where my desk is. Feeling anxious that I am not at my desk, I look up behind me to see who it is that the man is fooling around with. The gallery looks more like an old theatre auditorium, with a dress circle, an upper circle, and boxes on the sides. It has all been converted to accommodate desks, filing cabinets, photocopiers and printers. Chris Martin is standing by my desk, laughing hysterically at the man on the trading floor. He is mimicking the 'Tragedy' routine himself, struggling to finish writing what I assume is a message on a post-it note for me.
I decide to rush back to my desk, flying up the stairs two at a time, pushing past ushers selling chocolate ice-cream out of my way. I make it to my desk, and Chris is nosing through some of my paper-work.
'What are you looking for?', I ask him.
'My train ticket,' he replies, 'I left you a note. I didn't know where you were.'
'I gave it to you,' I say, out of breath, 'I booked it last week.'
He is still flushed from laughing, and is finding it difficult to stop smiling. For some reason, I am not amused.
'You can't find it, can you?' I ask.
'I might have lost it,' he answers, before breaking out into fits of laughter, forcing him to sit in my swivel chair to clutch his tummy.
'Well, I'm not booking you another train ticket. I'm too busy.'
With this, Chris has tears rolling down his face. At first, I assume they are tears of laughter, but before long, I can see that he is actually sobbing. I watch him cry, feeling awkward.
'Alright. Where are you traveling to?' I concede.
'Forget it,' he says. 'Just forget it.'
A young usher walks up to my desk with a full tray of chocolate ice-cream. His bow-tie is hanging lose around his neck and his waistcoat is buttoned-up incorrectly. I consider sacking him for this, but change my mind after he silently offers Chris Martin some complimentary ice-cream. Chris stops crying, sniffling through his nose to catch his breath again. He smiles at the young usher, as a child would through his tears.
I am deeply moved with gulit by this gesture, and so apologise to Chris and give the usher a fond kiss on the cheek.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thing is, i was in bed with my current partner, and i used to talk in my sleep !!!!!!
I hate it when i have dreams like that and am petrified i've said something.
[by anon (for obvious reasons)]
I'm working in my nan's old living room in the house she sold twenty years ago again and I realise that I know where this is going and that makes me feel sad. This one had started differently, you know.
The there's the running bit but that's far from a surprise and the dog's turned on me but I'd been waiting for that to happen for some time. My boss has turned into a side of beef and the dog has turned into a vicious little bleeder and I'm out of friends right about now.
And then, naturally, there's the flying bit, because that's how these things always end.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
I’ve had the same dream for years and years and years. Sometimes I suspect it is not a dream at all, and I am just imagining things.
I am flying, because I have basically spent the past thirty years developing spaceships. This started when I was very young, my first creation being inspired by the Peason-Molesworth Spaceship – basically a sort of wooden go-cart with a fin at the back.
My designs have never got past the drawing board. Slightly later in life I decided that I had better develop an engine of some description, so I did this. It was easy. I don’t know why Boeing and Nasa and people make such a fuss about it. I had four engines, one on each corner of the ship, facing downwards. The pilot filled them with petrol then pressed a button to ignite a spark which would fire that engine, the force sending the ship upwards.
It was tricky to control, as the pilot had to keep refilling each corner engine with petrol, and pressing the button again. Thinking about it, I never really planned where the petrol would be kept.
My designs developed over the years, a bit like the Cortina. The next breakthrough was an engine that you didn’t have to keep refilling. This was a major step forward, and flying was more relaxing. The space ship (I think it was the Mark 5 by this point) was now looking much more like a space ship, and was pointy and enclosed.
And the interior was basically a big bed.
Anyway, so I fly around in this at night. Often, I just get off the ground and that’s all I remember. But sometimes I visit my space station.
My space station is a sort of big apple-core shaped thing that orbits Jupiter. I can't remember how I got it there, but I can pilot my space ship right in through a door in the roof.
Recently I have been experimenting with different propulsion devices – mainly a sort of antigravity shield. It doesn’t actually provide any lift, but anything above it is immune from the effects of gravity, so far less force is required from the engines themselves.
I’m very excited about this development as it provides a far smoother ride.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Cut to the moment of the unveiling. Millie is on stage with Mark Lawson of Newsnight Review. This is art that's getting the serious treatment. Also on stage is Fran Cosgrove of Celebrity Love Island (((shudder))) - he will say a few words and unveil the artwork. Maybe I was wrong about the serious treatment. 'What the fuck could it be?' I ponder. Fran steps forward to the microphone, the crowd cheer.
"Alright like" says Fran
"Yeah" (etc etc) whoop the crowd
(Mark Lawson looks a bit embarrassed)
"Er-, I dunno what t' say really, let's just open the I Art You work shall we?"
"Yeah" shout the crowd
Fran points a remote control device at the island and presses a button. The sheeting descends from the tree-tops, falling into the water. This reveals a huge shiny metallic letters, they read 'I look forward to a future with you, Shane. xxx'. 'Fuck me' thinks I. Mark Lawson and Millie move towards the microphone. Do I not want to hear this! My hand-holder is gone. Vanished. I wend my way through the crowd before the artist interview begins. I leave the park. I spot a pub. Fancying an icy lemonade, I move towards it. As I move to enter, I'm forced to step aside as a young fella carrying some bulky shiny metallic object staggers out. I recognise him. Looking a bit bleary-eyed, it's the Liverpool Football Club captain, Steven Gerrard. He's carrying the European Champions League trophy.
"Where did you get that from?" I ask
"Nicked it" says he, then he burps.
He staggers off. I frown and enter the pub.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
In my dream I'm walking along the road to my Grandma's house and I pass a scary looking man, dressed all in black with black hair and dark sunglasses. I can't see his eyes but as he gets closer it's obvious he's staring at me. The adrenalin starts pumping as he gets even closer but then relief washes over me as he passes by. As I get to the bottom of my Grandma's drive I turn around just to make sure. It's ok because he's still walking away from me but then in a split second he turns and bolts right for me. I leg it up the drive but inevitably I wake up before I know whether I make it to the door in time.
In my dream, I am getting ready to go somewhere and I can see my reflection in the mirror. Instead of hair, I have leaves growing out of my head. Long stems of leaves, like the leaves from a climbing plant. At the front of my parting, near my forehead, a stubborn flower stem will not stay tucked behind my ear. I know it is a lily, even though it has not bloomed yet.
I try fixing it down with hair clips, but it persists in sticking up. Suddenly, the petals open. It is a beautiful white lily flower with big buds of pollen in its centre. I am conscious that if any of the pollen spills, it will stain my clothes. I make an attempt at putting my coat on without tilting my head.
My sister comes into my room wearing her coat. "Are you nearly ready?" she says. She sees me struggling with my coat and helps me get my arms through the sleeves. "Do I look alright?" I ask her. She tells me I look fine. The leaves fall about my shoulders, and I notice some of the stems are ridden with small tiny black insect eggs. I try to flick them off, but they are stuck down tightly and won't budge.
"Don't do that," my sister says, "They look like they're about to hatch."
We are sharing a giant tub of ice cream in the back seat of the car and arguing good-naturedly about the sexual politics of Robert Anton Wilson. We also have a submarine sandwich for later.
As we are driving through a suburban stretch of North Carolina, I spot a large building and call out that it's a Books-a-Million--didn't someone say they wanted to go to a Books-a-Million? "Good eye," everyone says, and we agree to go shopping. But now that I think of it, the neon logo on the front of the building was the Bookcrossing logo.
I rush round, frantically trying to tell them to stop. But they don't hear. They keep unloading, putting furniture in the appointed rooms. But there are so many of them! At every turn, through every doorway, there's another room. Too many rooms. I'm panicking. This isn't my house, *and* it's too big. There are too many, many too many rooms. My furniture will never fit.
The van is unloaded. The men drive off.
I am left in the wrong house, with too many rooms.
posted by Silver Lining
Monday, May 23, 2005
MY HOUSE – NIGHT INT.
WE SEE tomorrow’s lottery numbers displayed IN FIRE on the wall of a crumbling bedroom wall
MY HOUSE – NIGHT EXT.
VERNON is hanging by a barely attached scaffolding pole over the RUINS of the house next door
THE POPE'S CHAMBERS – DAY INT.
A result all round I think.
PETER STRINGFELLOW arrives flanked by the DUCHESS OF CORNWALL and DELIA SMITH
Nothing is what it appears, your munificence.
Come on if you’re hard enough!
In my dream, instead of the lone Rom or Bangladeshi, three young men in red and orange robes suddenly leap on my car armed with dripping squeegees. When I look to the left, there are more Tibetan monks moving in. In the rear-view mirror, I can see the two have become a seething mob pressing in on me.
My side window is open and one monk leans in saying, "Per favore, per favore!"
I shake my head and turn away just as another monk flicks his squeegee in my face.
I wake up rubbing my eyes frantically.
If I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me a horse.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
I'm on a long straight. No other traffic in sight. Summer evening sunshine. To my right, a raised hedgerow provides a natural barrier. To my left, across cut grass 10 metres from the road, a fence marks the perimeter of a field. In the distance I see a figure. The figure appears to be sitting on a bench. Approaching, imminently to pass at speed, I guess the figure to be a walker. I ease off the gas. Eyeing the seated figure, I note that it is an old man with a shepherd's crook. He looks up, smiling an knowing smile. It is a knowing smile. He seems to recognise me, but I am lost as to who he is. Maybe he had a brief run in Last of the Summer Wine. I don't know. A few seconds later, watching the figure in the mirror disappear to a dot, I realise that that was not a bench upon which he sat. That was an enormous Cadbury's Boost. I wonder whether the sun part-melted the Boost-seat thus rendering the old man stuck in a chocolatey fix. This provokes a moment of anxiety. I didn't stop to check. He didn't seem to mind. I wonder who he was. I feel sick.
In my dream I am standing on top of a skyscraper with my youngest sister. I think to myself that it is a good job I do not have vertigo in this dream. I don't actually suffer from it in real life, but in dreams I often find myself lying prostrate and petrified on top of a building, afraid to stand up. Read into that what you will.
In my dream, my sister is going to give me my first flying lesson. We are trainee superheroes.
We run across the rooftop hand in hand and then soar into the air. It's a pleasant feeling, but all the same I find it rather frustrating, because I sense that I'm not really going fast enough, that I'm losing momentum, and it will be over too quickly.
What really does impair my enjoyment is the fact that I am wearing a pair of very inappropriate slip on shoes with kitten heels, which are in the process of slowly slipping off, finally dangling precariously from my curled toes, a ticking time bomb which could kill a pedestrian far below in an instant.
I wake up thinking that next time I dream about being a superhero, I'll make sure I have sensible lace-up shoes on.
In my dream, I turn up at Maggie Thatcher's house for a meeting. Her son is a quiet spectacled Frenchman who can't bring himself to make eye-contact with me. Her grandson is a crazy hyperactive toddler, running wild through the house. He is completely ignored.
I am the first to arrive for the meeting, and take my place at the huge round table in her dining room. She has provided note-pads and pencils, and a jug of water. I am nervous around her, and sense that she doesn't really like me. She asks me if I remembered to vote in the last election. I tell her I voted for the Green Party, even though I know I didn't.
Other people begin to arrive for the meeting. I don't recognise anyone, apart from my old PE teacher, Miss Bird, who gives me a filthy look.
The meeting commences. I have no idea what the meeting is about, but I begin to take minutes. Mrs Thatcher begins quoting Shakespeare, and demands that I continue doing this while she visits the toilet.
I try to remember some Shakespeare, but nothing comes out. Everyone is staring at me, and my PE teacher laughs.
Then I realised (as ya do in such things) that i was also laughing like an absolute nutter in reality and freaking out my partner.
The thing that fanned my funny bone? I dreamt that my Stepmother went doo lally tat, and poured hot pasta and sauce all over my Dad's lap on a couch, while we laughed and jested together. He said something, to which i replied "I know one of us is sane, and it aint her," which was evidently the funniest joke on the planet!
I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that one.
Peace out all
Saturday, May 21, 2005
A buffet dinner is served. We are only allowed to go through the line once, but I overhear someone being told that they can sneak back and get more petite peas if they like.
I get up to join the dinner line and an older man catches hold of my arm. I pull, trying to get away, but he just laughs at me. Suddenly I lose my sense of propriety and start shouting "LET ME GO, MOTHERF---ER!" Except I don't lose it altogether, because I whisper the "F---" part each time.
The man laughs and runs away, and I find myself talking to Elliot Stabler, who assures me that we will be able to find the man and bring him to justice because he is wearing a particular kind of IV in the back of his head.
In my dream, I am walking through daffodils. It’s early morning, bright and sunny, and the ground is dew-wet beneath my bare feet. Cheery yellow flower heads nod all around me, their colours heightened. Everything is vivid, slow, sensorily extreme. I’m treading carefully between the flowers, not allowing any to become broken or crushed beneath my feet. Not because I care for the flowers, but someone is following me and I want to hide my footprints. I am sharply not-quite-afraid; anxious; very-nearly-scared. My trousers are wet from the flower heads, and the path running alongside me is tempting. But I mustn’t let anyone see that I came this way. The air is cold, and my breathing is shallow. A sharp anticipation accompanies each precise step. I’m not running; I can’t crush the flowers. I constantly check behind me, for footprints, evidence that I came this way.
I know who’s following me.
It’s Tony Blair.
I wake up, puzzled.
[by silver lining]
Friday, May 20, 2005
There is a party at one bar/venue/ski resort, but my friend and I break away for a while to go snowboarding. It’s been a really long time since I snowboarded, and even at my best I was totally black and blue from crashing so often, but miraculously I am pretty good at it this time. I carve down the slope in the almost-melted fake snow, never falling. That’s a good thing in retrospect, because I’m wearing some kind of funky 1970s knitwear, not proper snow pants or a parka.
But then again, it’s not cold. There's a lot in this dream that doesn't really make sense.
After my first snowboarding success, I go back to the party and try to convince my friend Candy to go down the slope with me, but she can’t remember how and hasn’t got any gear. Finally she smiles sweetly and says she’ll see if she can do it.
I get carded everywhere we go--it’s the doormen’s job, after all--but most of the people who work at the bars/venues/ski resorts seem to know me. It’s a formality. They know I’m turning 35 next week. Nevertheless it's a problem when Candy and I arrive at the gates of the ski slope and I discover that the previous place has kept my driver’s license and credit card. It takes me a while to figure this out, because I seem to have thousands of cards in my purse. But none of them are anything more than grocery store discount cards.
I fight my way through the crowds until I find an acquaintance working the door. “I’ll be back,” I explain. “Someone stole my ID at the last place.”
I am on my way back to reclaim my ID when I wake up.
Is it on?
One! Two! Teuh! Teuh!
Awright!! For those about to RARK ... never mind.
I had a dream. I was happy because I thought I could use it for my guest spot chez Tim. But after that thought, I could only remember two words about the dream. Now I can't remember them either. They were juicily descriptive words, I remember that much. One of them was something like vermillion but for green.
I next woke up at 6:30 to the sound of the maid in the next apartment washing the dishes. Closer still was a repetitive tock tock tock which I quickly guessed was my daughter tapping the table with coins from her second visitation of the tooth fairy. She wanted to make sure they weren't duds. Smart girl.
Could dream harder
Thursday, May 19, 2005
I think that's the basics covered.
We'll just have to use hand gestures should we need to say anything more complex, such as "Can you help? We think our bicycles may be in that river."
Me and Girlfriend are off to get hot and bothered for a bit.
Nature abhors a vacuum so I'm dead chuffed that, in my absence, a chain gang of premium quality bloggers have kindly offered to pick up the dream blogging baton and shuffle off with it. Right here, on this blog. I can hardly contain myself.
Having blog guests round is a bit like throwing a party then going down the pub and leaving them to it. You're hopeful that people will turn up, have a good time, make new friends and snort derisively at your CD collection but of course, ultimately, it's out of your control.
You also trust that you won't come home to discover the place looking significantly tidier and more inviting than when you left it, otherwise what does that say about you?
Fingers crossed then.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
In my dream, I’m asleep in bed, at home, having a dream. Yeah yeah, I know - it’s a bit “meta”. Sorry about that.
I can feel a weight pressing down on the mattress and realise it’s my Mum sitting on the edge of the bed. After a while I hear a thud, and feel the mattress returning to it’s normal position. The thud was the sound of my Mum collapsing to the floor, presumably dead.
I wake with a start, and it takes quite a few moments to register that what just happened did not actually happen.
There was no dialogue and no ‘action’ to speak of, but the sensation of the weight pressing on the mattress then being released and the sound of the thud to the floor seemed all too real. It was pretty unsettling.
The next day I phone my Mum to ask if she has, you know, dropped dead or anything recently. She is fine.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Life is sweet.
Full central heating, recently renovated, pool table and dartboard. Bolton non-smoker, thirty-whatever, requires drinking buddy.
Likes Natalie Merchant, chilling out, football and sloths.
Seeks similar for staying up laughing.
Trouble me. Would you rather, or not?
Personal Advert #2
Bolton girl seeks lucky star. So slide over here.
Went to the pub tonight with Girlfriend and Leanne. We played making up personal ads for Leanne.
The above two will be appearing in Diva magazine soon.
Blokes need not apply. Otherwise, contact Leanne here.
Monday, May 16, 2005
This weekend’s hire car was a Renault Optimist, with all the whizzy features that your striving Unix administrator demands.
To start the engine, rather than turning a key in the ignition, you place a credit card thingy in a slot, rest your head on the steering wheel and sing the first two bars of the 1812 Overture. It’s a security feature and a clever one too. How many of your common car thieves are going to think of doing that?
To open the boot, you simply hum the Archers theme tune - Dum dee dum dee dum dee dummm - but not the Sunday omnibus country dancing version, if you don’t want to look like an idiot.
I was interested to discover that there was no handbrake - how is your local neighbourhood car thief going to impress his mates doing handbrake turns round the estate without a handbrake? - and very taken with the automated parallel parking feature, although a bit of prior warning would have been appreciated.
I stayed at the same hotel as previously - the head waiter eyed me up and down suspiciously, like I was about to let off a stink bomb, or worse, start to sing at the piano - but the weekend crowd was completely different from last time.
Gone were the keen young executives power breakfasting with their bosses and shame faced account managers in the midst of torrid but ultimately unfulfilling affairs, and now it was generally genteel geriatrics in golf gear.
The waiters tend to put the solitary diners on the far perimeters of the dining room, a bit like when you’re rubbish at cricket and the captain positions you in the outfield.
“Will you be dining on your own yet again tonight, Sir?” they snide. “Best put you in Deep Extra Cover, in that case. We don‘t want to distress the guests with friends, do we now?”
Each night there was a heady mixture of well dressed thirty-something couples hopeful for an elegant evening of fine dining and relaxation away from the kids, large family groups celebrating birthdays or anniversaries, and the usual German septuagenarian swingers crowd.
It must be difficult trying to conjure up an atmosphere of romantic possibility while at the next table a toddler is doing that excruciatingly high pitched screaming thing which only toddlers can, and behind you Helmut is getting frisky with Lottie and they’re all poised for a night of amorous adventure just as soon as he remembers where he left his teeth.
Each morning, every table was a portrait of disappointment and regret.
“What was I thinking of? She spent more time on the phone to her Mum checking on the kids than talking to me.”
“All he talks about is golf. I want my old life back. I could be doing the ironing now.”
"Happy Birthday my arse. They can't wait 'til I'm dead."
“I’m too old for casual fornicating. I love my friends, but all I ever put out these days is my back. Sometimes it would be nice to just talk.”
I pretended to read the papers and thought about migration paths and patching levels and bos.alt_disk_install filesets, and what the hell was I doing here on such a beautiful May morning when I could be at home watering my nasturtiums and sweet peas, or playing out on my bike, or maybe even, if I was lucky, and she was lucky too, giving Girlfriend the benefit of my considerable affection.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
“Oh goodie,” I replied. “When?”
“This weekend. Are you alright with that?”
Like a fool, I said yes. I really don’t want to, but the work has got to be done and the overtime will come in handy.
It’s rubbish being back at work. Nothing has changed.
I feel like I should be pushing on with the ‘what’s going on with the customers taking their business to Oswaldtwistle?’ storyline, but there’s no news to report.
This morning, creepy Keith poked his fat face round our door to say he feels like a nineteen year old but where can you get one at this time of day, etc. and made Ash feel uncomfortable in the process. Zippee told him to go fuck himself, which made the girls jump up and down with joy. All the ladies have crushes on Zippee. He oozes hug appeal and often makes them go Awww.
When Stella hasn’t been on the phone telling everybody how drunk she got at the weekend after Wigan got promoted, she’s been winding up the North End fans about the playoffs.
Neil, my former team leader, has taken to bumping blindly around the building in a virtual reality helmet, humming Born To Be Wild and making vroom noises. A badge sewn onto the left arm of his jacket reads “Bikers For Life.” Another on the right arm says “Mum”.
At every opportunity, Terry and Tabs have been holding hands.
Me? My thoughts are flower strewn, ocean storm, bayberry moon, fading into and out of focus, around and around, the last of the cherry blossom falling in the dying evening light.
I can’t stop daydreaming about that deer effortlessly leaping over the fence and vanishing into the cool darkness of the woods, like in Field Of Dreams where the baseball players disappear into the corn - I’m melting! I’m melting! - and Shoeless Joe invites James Earl Jones to join them.
“Hey Tim. Do you wanna come with us?”
“Come with you?”
“What is out there?”
“Mud, mostly. And droppings. Come and find out.”
The air smells of pine. A pheasant cries out for his mate. Back in the house, people are laughing and drinking Smirnoff Ice.
“You gonna write about it?”
“You bet I’m gonna write about it,” I reply.
“You’re gonna write about it.”
“That’s what I do.”
More of the same old same old then. I need a holiday.
Friday, May 06, 2005
We played hide and seek and ran through the woods in the dark.
We did that thing where four people press on someone’s head and make them ‘levitate’ - ie. make them considerably easier to lift up than if we hadn‘t pressed down on them first. We did it with just one person, then two people sitting on a sofa. We tried to do it with three people sitting on a sofa but couldn’t lift them. We tried to levitate a car as well and but we couldn’t manage that either, which I thought was surprising.
Girlfriend did hers in the style of the Death Of Chatterton.
Actually, you don’t have to press down on their heads at all. Just pressing down on anything will do the trick. I reckon it’s got something to do with adrenaline rushes allowing you to tap into strength you wouldn‘t otherwise have access to. And nothing to do with - as one or two suspected - fucking about with Dark Forces. But I do have a history when it comes to being wrong about stuff.
We stopped up talking until 3 most nights. Twice, me, Girlfriend and Leanne stayed up talking until after it got light so we could see foxes (Girlfriend only) and deer (all of us) in the grounds. I’ve never drank vodka until 6.00 am before, but I have now.
We tried scrumming but other than being funny, it wasn’t a big success.
We lay on the drive stargazing and saw a shooting star.
We made a procession through the woods one night singing Mull Of Kintyre.
We threw apples at trees and sat on logs.
We sang a lot. My rendition of Oops I Did It Again has to be heard to be believed. I never realised what a beautiful and elegiac song Find The River is until I sat down and learned it. I’d let people strum while I did the left hand bit, and you wouldn’t believe the smiles it put on their faces.
Doing a Ouija board was vetoed - everybody had one veto; I used mine for not selling Girlfriend into slavery, sort of - though Ouija boards hold no fear me, no sir. We used to do them at school, using them as a kind of Google from beyond the grave; all I ever learned was that I wasn't going to marry Natasha Black, which has so far turned out to be true. But we did watch a not all that scary film then re-enacted it later.
We talked about things that are frightening and played the Would You Rather game. My favourite Would You Rather was when somebody said “Would you rather see a ghost than go through all your life not knowing whether or not they exist?” I’d rather see a ghost, so long as it didn’t scare me shitless.
We hung out on the gallery looking down into the living room. Hanging out on the gallery was ace.
We went for walks, and me and Girlfriend cycled and swam in the pool.
One of the group popped out for ten minutes and didn’t come back for four hours, which had us kind of worried and wondering at what point do you call the police to report a missing person, but we went to the pub instead and watched a carnival procession and hoped it would all work out OK which it did, so that was alright then.
I taught the nicest man in the world to juggle.
We did the tequila thing.
I never thought it possible to have so much fun for so long. When everybody left to go back to work and me and Girlfriend stayed on for a few days on our own, I felt genuinely sad like I haven’t felt sad since the days before me and Girlfriend shacked up together and had to say goodbye when the weekend was over.
She’s really lucky to have such ace colleagues / friends and nobody can wait to do all it again.
It kind of goes without saying, but this is my blog. I own it. Slightly daft MP3 disclaimer: All MP3's are posted here for a limited time only. Music is not posted here with the intention to profit or violate copyright. In the unlikely event that you are the creator or copyright owner of a song published on this site and you want it to be removed, let me know.