In my deep and continuing self pity I forgot to tell Hairy Farmer Family about the dream I had last week, which was a shame because it featured her rather heavily.
p.s. every blogger I read invariably refuses to relay their dreams on the grounds that listening to people’s dreams is very, very boring. This may be true, but I am resolute, and will continue.
HFF and I are real life friends who started out as blogging friends. Everyone spends a great deal of time telling you how if you make friends with people on the internet they come round to your house, fill your shoes with wee and strangle your cat. Sadly, this sometimes happens, but my experience of friendships made through blogging has been universally excellent and HFF is a shining star in the firmament as far as I’m concerned.
I was informed, by the power of Facebook that HFF was in search of a blonde wig, as she needed to be the Countess in The Sound of Music. She does these things you know. She is a multi talented sort of woman.
Anyway, this news must have sunk deep into my subconscious and made a huge impression on me.
For last week I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I decided to take my whole, extended family on holiday at the last minute. We drove for decades to some unspecified place where our accommodation was parlous and everything looked like a Soviet style gulag.
There was much dissent in the ranks, and it was decided that on the following day we would drive home, but given that we had already driven for decades, we had better make a fist of it and tuck in for the night.
I recollect a great deal of the dream was spent walking up and down beige carpeted corridors, settling various disgruntled people to sleep in dank hotel rooms with sagging, grimy lace curtains and a persistent smell of mouse.
I had just tucked the last one up, and was slumped in the corridor, congratulating myself on finally getting everyone off to sleep in a satisfactory manner, when a door at the end of the passage burst open.
HFF, dressed as a Mother Superior, but swathed in paisley curtain material, shot through the corridor, pursued noisily by a hundred nuns, all singing: ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ at the top of their voices.
As she sashayed past me she shouted: ‘Isn’t it brilliant. They’ve hired me for the musical on the strength of my Countess?’
I watched her and the nuns retreat in a flurry of monochrome and paisley, and listened to the sound of the entire corridor of people I had just soothed into unconsciousness, wailing back to life.
Curse you, and your nuns!