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.
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