Saturday, May 21, 2005

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]

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