I thought and lost

Teaching Yoga

2008-06-21T04:03:00.000-07:00

It was Christmas day, yet for some strange reason I found myself teaching a Yoga class. But knowing next to nothing about the practicialities of Yoga I was doing the best I could to blag my way through...

There were about 8 or 9 people in the class and many of them seemed surprisingly old. I remember thinking how frail and weak a few of them appeared. It was also very evident that they were absolute beginners, with even less knowledge of Yoga than me; hence my apparent ability to bamboozle them with my fradulent mastery of the Yogic arts.

"Why on earth are they spending Christmas Day trying to learn Yoga from me?" I wondered, "...And at their age?"

Anyway, I continued the class, confidently conning them all with a series of flamboyant, twisty moves that sprung up from my imagination. Standing before them all I would rapidly demonstate the next maneovre, in a swift, superficial manner that allowed me not to strain mysself in anyway yet somehow implied that I couldn't be bothered to show them the precise technicalities because I found the posture far too easy; it would be beneath me to spend my time demonstrating such amateur acrobactics.

To make myself seem more convincing I laced my instructions with detailed histories explaining the origins and philospophies behing the moves...giving each posture some ludicrous, exotic title
such as "Flight of the Pink Turtle" as I demonstrated it and then explaining which muscles it worked and how it benefit their lives in ever more fantastical ways...Occasionaly hands were raised and questions asked, but somehow I glided through, bombarded them with eastern jargon and complicated, incomprehensible answers...

So there I was, instructing a group that ranged from the middle-aged to the slighty decrepid, to stretch, tense, curve and curl their bodies into a maddening array of made-up stances. I was half enjoying myself - amused at making them perform ever more challenging and embarrasingly awkaward commands - whilst also worrying that any moment my true ignorance would be revealed.

Then suddenly a nasty, spine shivering CRACK bounced off the walls and echoed through the hall. It was the kind of sound that carries and conveys the unmistakeable vibration of something thats gone very, very wrong. It was an shrill chord of piercing pain. An ugly, ugly sound... Everyone turned to see a small, greay haired lady who'd collapsed whilst straining to perform an elaborate head-stand type feat, the details of which I'd briefly brushed over just moments before.

" My back" she whimpered "I think its broken"

Instant panic set in as I realised the enormity of the situation. I was a fake yoga teacher! No qualifications, no insurance, no legal safety-net! And my dis-honest incompetance had caused this poor old lady to suffer a ghastly, horrible injury.

I picked up a phone and tried to call an ambulance. But becasue it was christmas the operator said we may have to wait hours and hours...

Whilst I and the group sat round the old lady, waiting for the ambulance, I decided I'd better come clean...

The Queen is Dead

2006-10-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

I woke, stumbled out of bed, made my way to the kitchen on automatic-zombie. Switched on the kettle, turned on the telly...

At first tiredness muffled the News caster's mournful mumbling of enunciated whispers. But as I sat, wiping away gooey white streaks of sleep from my eyes, the gravitas-laden tones of the BBC began to penetrate my consciousness:

"It's now thought that her Majesty the Queen passed away sometime between 3 and 4 am this morning. Early reports seem to confirm that her Majesty committed suicide..."

I sat slack-jawed. The Queen had killed herself! Reached for the remote control, turned up the volume, sat aghast as more revelations were revealed:

"We're now joined by Mr. Herbert Smythe, biographer and long-term confidante of the Royal Household. Mr. Smythe, as an authority on the Queen and her life, are you as shocked at the extraordinary manner of her death? I mean it seems so out of character..."

Herbert Smythe went on to postulate on what may have caused the Queen to take such drastic action. He explained that it was almost undoubtedly due to the recent publication in the press of private photographers from the Queen's youth. I wondered how I'd missed this recent furore, but thankfully the entire subject was quickly recapped -

It transpired that some sensational images of the young Queen had somehow "turned up" and been sold to the Tabloids. They were obviously form the "Swinging Sixties"; old, grainy, black and white prints imbued with the atmosphere of some stylish French film.

They were deemed so scandalous because they portrayed a casual, care-free Queen enjoying life with gay abandonment. There were shots of her pulling faces, flirting with the camera, smoking cigarettes, lazing and lounging in provocative poses and caught in romantic embraces with none other than Bob Dylan!

Herbert Smythe went on to explain that for a brief period, during Dylan's first visit to England, he and her Majesty had enjoyed an incredibly intense whirl-wind romance. The young royal, already besotted with his poetic lyrics, invited him to a secret dinner at Buckingham Palace. At that very first meeting her Majesty fell head over heels in love with the scruffy, beatnik bohemian and for a few fraught weeks their clandestine relationship threatened, not only to destroy her marriage, but to fracture the very foundations of the British "Establishment".

They failed to mention precisely how the Queen had chosen to take her life, but their seemed to be an unspoken implication that it was a gruesome, violent method, "too shocking" to reveal in any detail.

The Newscasters were visibly upset and ashen, correspondents voices were trembling and there long pauses of silent paper-fumbling, malfunctioning links and a noticeable lack of autocue. The studio was in disarray. No one had been prepared for this. And no one would be going to work today. Tony Blair had declared a national day of mourning.

The news rolled on in a continuous loop, but that particular segment ended with the News Reader's noting that:

"At present Bob Dylan has declined to comment"

Albert

2006-06-07T03:24:00.000-07:00

Someone called Mike Pike (or similar) offered me a job. He always wore a suit and was a headmaster or professor at a prestigious educational residence. It was some sort of trainee, research position which also incorporated an element of teaching. I jumped at the chance, particularly as I had an avid interest in his area of expertise. It was a golden opportunity and almost seemed too good to be true!

On my first day there's the obligatory tour and introduction to staff and students. All seems fine and dandy but all day long I notice that Mike Pike seems, well, oddly on edge. He speeds up stairs and through corridors, scurrying along at a frantic pace. His eyes never stay still, they dart this way and that, scanning north, east, south and west; constantly on guard. He treats me with exaggerated courtesy, going out of his way to provide tea and snacks, extra furnishings for my room -

"Anything you fancy - Anything at all? No really. You name it, you've got it."

When we talk he's apologetically polite; intones my name with sugar-laden familiarity and tip-toes over details with a light, evasive air. In my mind he starts to take on the persona of a slimy, desperate car salesman or estate agent. I can't help but feel suspicious and begin to suspect he's keeping something from me...

He shows me the "Pool" (seemed like the sea or a natural lake, but all situated indoors) and we suited-up into scuba gear. His research seemed to involve the study of the bizarre flora, fauna and life-forms of the Pool bed). Down in the deep we swam, witnessing a magnificent, colourful array of strange never-before-seen-creatures. I felt honoured and privileged to be witnessing such wonders.

Then, as we climbed out of the pool, Mike Pike asks - in a quick, contrived, it's-now-or-never manner that betrays his reticence to say it:

"Oh, by the way, I did give you the letter didn't I?"

"Er, no. What letter?" I reply.

"Oh, it's just this letter we give to all new staff" Mike says as he magically produces it and hands it over.

I open the envelope and begin to read. Below is a roughly recalled summation of it's content:

Dear New Member of Staff
It is our pleasure to welcome you to Such & Such School. We hope that you will find your time with us both enjoyable and rewarding. We value and respect all our staff and believe it is through their contribution that the school achieves excellence. We trust that you will develop a fond relationship with our student body.
In particular we would like to make you aware of one of our students: Albert, whom some of the students have unkindly nicknamed "The Biting Boy". Albert is a warm and friendly child who shows much promise. Unfortunately, he has been known to bite both staff and students. It is for this reason that we recommend that all staff abstain from wearing shorts or short-sleeved shirts. It is recommended that you bare the minimum amount of flesh as possible so as not to facilitate one of Albert's fits.
In the event that you are bitten please be assured that recent medical checks have ensured that there is no current risk from rabies or infection of any kind.
We look forward to working with you.

Yours sincerely
Mike Pike

The letter scares me. But before I can ask Mike Pike any further details he rushes away. Leaving the pool building I'm caught in a throng of slowly marching, mingling students. Panic starts to set in as I nervously eye their faces, wondering if one of them is the notorious Albert...

"Hello, Sir" an innocent looking lad pipes up.

I casually nod acknowledgment, taking a couple of side-steps to distance myself from the group. Once they've passed, and no one's looking, I sprint away - hurtling for the safety of my room, haunted by the fear of an attacking Albert.

One-liner

2006-06-05T03:06:00.000-07:00

Jumbled up, mish-mash of dreams last night. Only thing I can clearly remember is been sat in a pub and hearing someone shout "Welsh pack, lightening Jack!" over and over again...weird.

All the things I've ever killed...

2006-05-26T04:24:00.000-07:00

Since awakening from the dream below the thought of "all the things I've ever killed" has nagfully lingered over me.. Have decided to compile a list (to be added to as I remember more, or in the unwelcome event that I kill more things).

Decided will only include life I have directly destroyed. Ignoring deaths indirectly contributed to by virtue of my food intake. Having once being a meat-eater, and now a fish-eater, I have certainly colluded in the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of innocent animals. However, I never "pulled the trigger" and as such (perhaps coldly in denial) their blood has failed to stain my conscious. Anyway...here goes my confession:

1) Plenty of Plant Life

I've plucked flowers, killed weeds and stood, stamped and sat on various flora and fauna throughout my life. I must of murdered an innumerable amount of greenery. Apart from killing I've constantly maimed - flippantly pulling branches from trees, mowing down grass, picking fruits and berries, pruning this, pruning that... Of course we humans assume that plant life is not sentient, void of consciousness, completely without soul. But who are we to know...

2) Thousands of Insects

Gleefully I've squatted flies. Spraying them and their like with noxious, suffocating gases. As a child I set up insecticoid Guantamano bay's, imprisoning creepy-crawlies of all shapes and sizes, only to pull off their wings, snap their antenna or drown the still squirming creatures. Remember inventing a game that I played for hours, bouncing a tennis ball off an army of ants climbing the wall...I kept on going, massacring till all of them were mashed.

3) Arachnids

I've turned on the taps and watched spiders, small and large, waving all eight legs, vainly trying to paddle as they spiral down the plughole.

4) Cockroaches

I've squished and squashed my fare share of these, admittedly vile, looking beings. Why would a God of love, compassion and beauty create the cockroach? Who knows, but their unpleasing appearance is certainly no excuse for my murderous actions.

5) Worms

Not for a long time now, but I recall in my youth, over-doing my experimentation with these creatures ability to regenerate when cut in half. Child-hood curiosity led me to ascertain if the ugly, wriggly things could regenerate from ever smaller segments...Once you get past quarters it turns out they can't, but in the name of science my trials continued.

6) Ticks

I've burnt ticks off dogs ears, then squashed the pus-filled parasites with my heel.

7) Lizards

Similar scenario to the worms. Was fascinated by the lizards ability to regrow limbs. Would capture them, decapitate appendages, watch and wait. After much study, with dozens of "volunteers", was able to conclude that lizards are unable to regrow their heads.

8) Mice

I've lain poison. I've put out back-breaking snap taps, smeared with tantalizing, tempting snacks like peanut butter and slithers of chocolate, slices of cheese. I put out glue traps and buckets of beer. I'm guilty of trying to kill these vermin in every imaginable way possible. And now and then I've succeeded. And to think we share 99% of our DNA...We're practically related, yet I didn't think twice.

9) A bird

Seven years old. Skipping down the street with my sister beside me. A family of tiny songbirds passes by, flying low, leaving a trail of chirping. By some freak accident my skipping foot, raised high in the air, blocks the path of one tiny bird and causes a mid-air collision.

The little creature fell to the ground. We picked it up. It was still alive but motionless. We took it home, me crying my eyes out whilst my sister assured me

"He'll be okay. We'll call the RSPCA and they'll know what to do."

She rang the number, whilst I cradled the tiny, light as air, bundle of pretty brown feathers in my hands. I can clearly see it's little head right now. It was still making chirp-chirp noises and its eye were constantly blinking, but the body didn't - couldn't - move.

Of course, the RSPCA didn't come rushing out to save a tiny songbird with a broken skull. They just said "Let it die peacefully". I remember we tried to give it water, dripping droplets from a pipette...Then I held it, gently stroking its downy back, singing to it with my sobs as it slipped away.

We made a little bed for it. I prayed before I slept. Next morning it was dead. I cried and cried, convinced I had murdered this beautiful, innocent beast. We buried it in the garden and I kept on crying.

Definitely the largest thing I've ever killed. And certainly the most traumatic.

10) Bacteria/Germs

I've bought all those Antibacterial surface cleaners and soaps. I've put Detal in water and scrubbed whole civilisations of microbes to their doom. But in my defence I'm sure I've also - especially in my student days - afforded such life-forms many opportunities to thrive and multiply.

11)....To be continued.

7.4 on the Scary Scale

2006-05-26T02:39:00.000-07:00

Disturbed and restless night; haunted by gruesome visions. Running. Fighting. Arguing. Caught up in a crazed panic. Some God-awful distopia, cursed with perpetual night, peopled by desperate vagrants and devilish madmen. An entire race in wretched rags. A population of psychotic tramps, thin and gaunt, eyes bloodshot and bulging. They steal, stab and scavenge to survive. Every man for himself...

Running amongst them, horrified by what I see. A stranger's shoulder collides with mine. Eye contact. A menacing look.

"Sorry..."

The stranger gives a sadistic smile, his lips a pale isle of pink amidst a sea of stubble.

"Too late for that" he snarls and suddenly he's chasing me, roaring and screaming - a battle cry that calls to him companions. Engulfed by absolute terror, franticly fleeing on anguished, automatic-pilot . Scrambling down dark streets we race, six or seven athletic lunatics hot on my heels. Wheezing, panting, sweating pure adrenaline. On and on it goes, the furious horde recruiting as we go; growing larger, gaining ground! Shouting a chorus of obscenities. Blood-curdling threats infused with hate and anger.

Jumping, crawling, climbing to escape. Desperate to evade pursuit. Hoping that, somewhere, somehow, there's a favourable finish line for this deadly decathlon.

Then the net is cast. A dark, heavy web falls from above, clothing me like an unwelcome garment. Tripping, tangled up in tight, ropey knots. Trapped. Surrounded. They push and prod their prey, kicking, spitting, playfully tormenting.

The pipe in my pocket is wooden. A small, carved musical instrument. Clasped with a steely grip I extract it unseen. Must defend myself. Violence is the only way. Uneager of what must follow...

With swift ferocity I attack, viousiously swinging the pipe through the netting, impaling its pointed end far within the fleshy throat of the nearest dirty-faced nomad. A crimson fountain spurts and wells from the wound. The pipe lashes out again, digging deep into the belly of another horrific hobo. Again I strike, administering vengeful justice with no hint of mercy. Soon my breath sings alone in the quiet night air. Around, swampy red ground, littered with lifeless limbs; frosen faces, painfully slain.

Goliath guilt rises up inside. I have become like them. Worse than them. I have taken life. I am a murderor....

Bits and Pieces

2006-05-05T03:27:00.000-07:00

Sleep patterns recently changed. Rising earlier; seems to have effected quality of dream recall. Now tend to wake clutching convoluted fragments, too nebulous to narrate...Best remembered snippets have included:

Costa Del Darfur

Sat in a travel agency, urgently determined to book a last minute package holiday. Eagerly explaining to the agent both budget limitations and an adventurous daring to embrace any destination, so long as it's-

"Cheap, hot and sunny!"

"Hmmm...Well, we've got an unbelievable deal right now" the agent exclaims and proceeds to describe the delightful details - Grand resort, great room, glorious restaurant!

Muggins is totally sold, overly excited, doesn't even comprehend what country it's in.

"Fantastic! We'll take it."

In a haze of holiday euphoria the plane glides down, a connecting coach crawls through dusty desert and suddenly we're at the hotel. Almost immediately my better half (or perhaps more accurately my "better three-quarters" as suspect that the share of good qualities is not equally divided between us) adopts a permanent scowl and an air of shocked disdain.

Perplexed I attempt to buoy her mood by entering into the holiday spirit with frivolous abandonment - tempting her down to the pool, ordering room service; extravagant cocktails, sizzling snacks. But this only serves to make things worse; till finally she spits with accusing disbelief:

"You do realize where we are don't you?"

"Yeah - We're on holiday"

"We're bloody well in Darfur!"

"Oh..."

This certainly puts a dampener on the situation. To make matters worse the next morning huge clouds cluster the sky and the rest of our stay is hampered by uncharacteristically wet weather. I sulk and curse the travel agent; unable to enjoy myself in any way for fear of being admonished for forgetting "those less fortunate than ourselves" whose close proximity I've so stupidly chosen for our excessive, vulgar vacation.

Christopher "Care-Bear" Walken

On set, witnessing filming of a new Sci-Fi epic, starring non-other than the wickedly cool Walken. The scene being shot somehow seems to incorporate all of the finished special effects right now, as it's acted. Christopher Walken is some kind of alien, or highly evolved human, capable of projecting a shimmering beam of energy that shoots out like a dazzling ray from the centre of his chest.

Acting in spectacular bursts of real-life slow-motion, Walken does battle with similarly endowed beings, all radiating their own colourful laser-like emanations. The effects of the energy seems to depend on the particular power that the alien possesses. Red rays seem to melt things, blue one's immobilise, green one's calm and heal, yellow one's inflict pain etc.

Suddenly the concept feels very familiar and I quietly comment -

"It's a bit like the Care Bears isn't it?"

"Shhhh! Keep quiet!" Someone shout-whispers.

Walken glares at me and the filming continues.

The Eccentric Elderly Relative

2006-04-07T05:08:00.000-07:00

No one I know from the waking world, but a woman was relating an anecdote about their eccentric elderly relative - it was either their Grandmother or their Great Aunt - As they told their tale the scenes played out before me...

"So, you see, she came to stay with us for a few weeks whilst she was recuperating" my dream companion explained.

A distinguished looking, silver-haired lady sat up-right in bed, a blanket round her shoulders. Delicately sipping a cup of steaming chai, a shiny tea tray perched on her lap, an open book resting on her pillow.

"She mostly stayed in bed. But she would insist on bathing daily".

Someone tightly turned the taps of a lavish looking bath, all gleaming marble and sparkling brass, frothing over with baby-soft bubbles.

"We usually left her to it, just checking on her now and then" the story-teller continued. "But on this one occasion..."

The woman in my dream stood by the closed bathroom door, straining to hear the signature splish-splashing that confirmed all was well. "Everything alright in there?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you dear" came a croaky reply. "But, would you mind bringing a flannel?"

The woman returned soon after, fresh flannel in hand. She knocked politely before easing the door open. The sight inside greeted her like a lion about to leap, and she reacted much the same, screeching out a nauseous chord and trembling with a fierceful fright.

Bubbling water swayed and slopped over the marble rim, dripping off a wrinkled hand, adorned with rings but hanging limply.

The old lady's head lay buried beneath the bubbles. Momentarily frozen the woman rushed forwards, slipping and sliding on the moist floor, squealing and shrieking like a piglet in pain.
Her hands dived and delved through the foam, grasping and gripping at the frail figure so deeply submerged in the soapy suds. She scooped up her elderly relative, wailing despondently, assuming the worst.

"As you can imagine, I was completely distraught!"

Then suddenly the old lady's eye's sprang open, her mouth curled into a mischievous smile and she let out a cunning cackle. Triumphant tears rained down her cheeks and her small, shrivelled body convulsed as she coughed, mirthfully choking on her laughter. Hysterically happy.

"The old dear found it hilarious. Turns out she's got quite a habit of pretending to die" the woman told me. "She fooled us four more times that fortnight. Once by laying at the bottom of the stairs, all crumpled up as if she'd fallen..."

The anecdote continued with yet more examples which unfortunately I can't recall.

Winged

2006-04-04T02:25:00.000-07:00

Hazy recollection, but the general gist went something like this...

Whilst browsing through an old trunk I came upon a collection of old notebooks, journals and jotted scraps all dating from my time at junior school. Randomly leafing the pages unleashed a storm of clouded memories and I was struck by bolts of fond nostalgia. One particular section most enthralled me - a diary of doodles; roughly scrawled illustations of childhood adventures, annotated with titles or brief explanations.

Most seemed mundane to my adult eye - pictograms of everyday situations, with headings such as "The Football Match" or "Pillow fighting" floating over colourfully crayoned representations; a two-dimensional world, peopled by surreal stick-men. Captured in a mad melee of pencils, pens and thick felt-tips.

But one diagram left me dumbfounded. Entitled "Mr. Collingwood takes me flying" it showed a large, winged stickman and a small stick-child sweeping through the sky, boldly etched speed lines trailing in their wake as they burst through crayon clouds.

Suddenly a horde of sunken, slumbering images burst through the doors of things long lost and forgotten. I remembered Mr Collinwood, my RE teacher, with a vivid, uncanny clarity. His brown, fluff-balled suit. His grey-speckled hair. His stale, sweet smell and spider-leg nose hair. His gravely voice and jagged nibbled nails. And the two bumps on his back, subtly protruding from his shoulders, stretching and straining against the fabric of his shirt. I remembered his wings, unleashed, in full span and full glory. And with the utmost certainty, yes, I remembered the day he took me flying.

Carry on away day...

2006-03-31T02:49:00.000-08:00

Started out funny, ended up slightly scary:

Running down the street, late for the office "away day". There'd been a last minute change of venue so I turned up at the wrong place to find a map pinned to the door...

Finally I got to the right building. Inside everyone was in fancy dress - some were dolled up as doctors and nurses, others were highway men and many staff wore French Revolution style attire (one of my managers was in full Louis the seventeenth regalia - long white wig, flowery cuffs etc).

Turned out it was meant to be a "Carry on" Film theme. Someone asked what I'd come as. My excuse was along the lines of "I'm an obscure character from one of the early black & white films".

Next thing I remember everyone was split into teams. I didn't know anyone in my team, but they all seemed to know each other. A big "Lucky Dip" bag was passed round and we all had to pull out a mystery object and then spontaneously utter an innuendo-laced witticism about it (at which point everyone would clap and laugh).

Not only did I fail to exactly grasp the rules or overall aim of the game, but only one item was left when it came to my turn - a bag of Italian flour. At a complete lost as to how to inject the flour with either humour or innuendo I resorted to blurting out a string of Kenneth Graham style "Ooooooh's" interjected with offensive expletives! I found this hilarious but no one clapped or laughed, so I kept repeating it...thinking they just hadn't got it.

I was led on to a platform with two people from other teams. We were about to face the Booby Prize for losing, or in my case botching, the Lucky Dip game. The punishment was meant to be a pantomime-style spanking administered with a huge spongy "Mallet's Mallet" style club.

The first recipient was led to the front of the platform and suddenly the atmosphere darkened. A Pirate with an eye-patch, acting as the master of ceremonies, started menacingly waving about some sort of cat-o-nine-tails device and the crowd started to let out blood-thirsty jeers. The realization dawned that this was not going to be some light-hearted mock punishment - Instead we were facing a harsh, sharia-law style public flogging!

Remember muttering "It's just like Lawrence of Arabia" . They began to flog the first loser, I eyed the exits, thinking "Must make a dash for it!"

Luckily, was saved by the beep of my alarm...

N.B. Got on the tube this morning to find that, sitting opposite, was a man with an eye patch! Spooky.

Head Quake

2006-03-30T05:46:00.000-08:00

Don't remember much, but sum of it was this:

I awoke (in my dream) to discover that the entire building was shaking and quivering like jelly. My ears were filled with a base growling, emanating from far below.

"Must be an earthquake!" I thought to myself, and I began to frantically run around, struggling to keep my balance, as I woke everyone to alert them.

"Keep calm! Just get under your beds, or under your tables" I shouted. But everyone just looked at me with puzzled incomprehension and no one seemed very concerned. This lack of response agitated me into a state of worried panic, "What's wrong with you people?" I screamed, "Protect your selves, for God's sake!!!"

Subsequently, they sat me down, calmed me and after much talking, it was patiently explained to me that "There is no earthquake...it's only in your head"

No one else was experiencing the shifting, shaking walls and see-sawing floors; no one else could hear the deep, sonic rumbling or sense the violent vibrations.

I was just having a "head quake" and everyone seemed surprise that I'd never had one before and they were amazed I'd never even heard of them.

Furry Coffins

2006-03-28T02:19:00.000-08:00

"We spend all our lives expressing and celebrating our individuality, but when we die suddenly we're meant to conform" I told the camera crew as they followed me around the factory. "What I'm trying to do is put the fun back into funerals!" I explained, "That's why I founded Fun-erals in the first place".

I led the documentary makers past a huge, rolling conveyer belt upon which a dazzling array of multicoloured coffins were been spray-painted, polished and "individualised" with personalised embellishments such as quotes, pictures and protruding souvenirs and adornments that were fastened to the caskets.

I swung a door open and pointed, proudly exclaimed "This is our new range". Inside the room were a row of furry coffins. Some traditionally rectangular, others more exotic shaped - All of them clothed in a thick, furry, carpet like covering. Each coffin had it's own unique pattern - some were stripy, others had swirls and spirals, but almost all of them were incredibly garish and kitsch. "We offer them in lambs wool, cashmere, hemp - you name it we do it!" I continued with my hard sell plugging.

At this point the "narrator" of the show began to give a brief biography of me, describing me in glowing terms as “The Willy Wonka of the Funeral World” and the “Bill Gates of Undertakers” . He then began to recap the genesis of my genius:

Narrator: “It all began with a simple idea inspired by the humble supermarket trolley”.

Cut to a younger-looking me standing beside a low standing, elongated trolley and explaining to camera that “Basically, I figured, why not build a coffin-trolley.

Reporter: “A coffin trolley?”

Me: “Right, a trolley to put a coffin on and allow you to push it to and from the chapel.”

Reporter: “And what’s the advantage of that?”

Me: “Well, first off it does away with the need for Pallbearer’s. Plus you don’t need a Hearse – You just push the coffin along yourself. It’s easy – no strength required.”.

Narrator: “It wasn’t long before this daring entrepreneur took his vision even further…”

Cut to images of me fiddling like a mechanic as I construct Caskets with huge motorbike-type wheels attached to their underside’s.

Narrator: “And so the motorized coffin was born...”

Me to camera: “ These babies are going to be remote controlled. 200 horse-power!”

A hideous, furry, rainbow striped, wheeled casket was then shown speeding along over rocky, rough terrain with me remote controlling its movements. Woke up at 5.35 am, couldn't get back to sleep...

The Flying Man

2006-03-16T10:05:00.000-08:00

A lovely summer's day. A huge green expanse. Somewhere like Hyde Park. Scores of people lounging and lazing in the sunshine. But with a purpose, as if waiting for something to begin. It felt like some sort of commemoration or national celebration. The air was buzzing with a sense of anticipation.

A strange trio made there way through the crowd. A man, a woman and a child. All three dressed in startling yellow clothes. Their matching apparel consisted of bright canary Wellingtons; lemon hued water-proofed trousers, bananary shirts and long, flowing maize coloured mackintoshes.

The odd family strolled towards a bench that was painted an equally luminous shade of egg-yoke. They all sat down and suddenly the bench began to rise off the ground. It floated higher and higher, taking them up high into the sky. The crowd, slightly distracted, looked on with no apparent surprise - as if the whole thing were perfectly normal.

I, however, was amazed. Yet I had the nagging feeling that somehow I'd forgotten the fact that this was actually a really very mundane occurrence and that there was a name for this "event" but I simply couldn't recall it.
Then the Yellow man did something astounding. He flung himself off the bench and began to acrobatically glide through the air - flying this way and that, free as a bird. His yellow mackintosh swept behind him like a superhero's cape, billowing in the wind, as he turning and twisted through the clouds.

The crowd rustled with murmurs of "Ooooh" and "Ahhhhh" and somebody commented "He's definitely a professional."
I watched as the Flying Yellow Man rose higher and higher, ascending at an astonishing vertical pace. Soon he had almost disappeared out of sight, all that we could see was a tiny speck twinkling miles above us in the sky.

Then he began to descend. Hurtling earthwards like a shooting star. Breaking through the stratosphere, diving through the clouds. Falling faster and faster, flaring and flashing, becoming brighter and lighter. Until suddenly he plunged through the clouds above us, transformed into a magnificent, blazing, golden ball of light. Glowing with a pure, blinding brilliance. Shining brighter than the sun. Beautifully Iridescent.

Woke up in a good mood.

The actor who played...

2006-03-09T03:18:00.000-08:00

Very short - but very odd. Dreamt I was in some sort of "old people's home". I was confined to a wheelchair, yet I was very excited and was packing in preparation of some sort of outward-bounds adventure weekend (full of adrenaline-sport style assault-courses).

Before the mini-bus came to pick me up I was watching TV with some fellow oldies in the "Common Room". On the screen was some sort of retrospective documentary all about the career of an actor. Clips of an old black & white film were being shown and although I recognized the actor's very distinctive face, I couldn't quite place it..."He looks so young in this" I thought to myself.
The vintage film had a tragic-romantic tone and his role required him to wear lots of bulky metallic armour. The documentary stated that this was "His most famous & beloved role" for which he would be forever remember.

As I wracked my brains trying to remember where I knew the actor from one of the old ladies in the common room made a comment along the lines of "He's not very convincing is he!" and there was a murmur of geriatric agreement. Then it came back to me - Of course - I knew who he was! Who could forget that strangely long face. I recognised him from the Patrick Swayze crowd-pleaser "Ghost". He was the guy who played the slightly deranged Subway Ghost (who kept shouting "GET OFF MY TRAIN").

Next thing I know I'm in the documentary and I'm interviewing the actor.
"So what's your next big project?" I asked him.
"Well," he said, " I'm going to be starring in an updated version of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Phantom of the Opera"
"Wow, really?"
"Yes...It's going to be set in the future and I'm really looking forward to it."

I've no idea why I dreamt about this guy - I haven't watched "Ghost" for ages or seen him in anything else...Looked him up on IMDB and apparently his name's Vincent Schiavelli.

Weird Waiter & the Easter Island Eclipse

2006-03-08T04:25:00.000-08:00

Only a short dream, but very memorable. When it started I was in a restaurant with some friends, waiting to make our food orders. For some strange reason every time the Waiter came to serve us I got the distinct impression he kept on banging into or brushing against me on purpose. Things finally came to a head and my suspicions were confirmed when the Weird Waiter blatantly started touching my hair whilst he collected our plates.

"What do you think you're doing?" I shouted in absolute outrage, but the Weird Waiter just looked at me blankly and shrugged his shoulders like he was totally innocent - Yet the very next second, as soon as I looked way, he started doing it again - roughly combing my hair with his fingers.

Astonished and shocked at his behaviour I nevertheless felt embarrassed at the possibility of making a scene in the restaurant, so I tried to keep calm and just kept quietly admonishing him, urging him to "Please. Stop now. Come on this is ridiculous!"

Next thing I remember is sitting reading the Sunday papers with my girlfriend. I was relaxing, reading the Travel section, sipping a cup of tea. Suddenly I saw an advert that made me jump out of my seat with excitement.
"This is unbelievable" I squealed, my mind boggling from a rush of euphoria "What a brilliant bargain!".
"What? What is it?" asked my good lady.

I proceeded to eagerly read out the details of the advert - "£134 for five days in Easter Island - FLIGHTS INCLUDED!!! - To watch the Solar Eclipse on March the 15th!"

"Maybe it's a mis-print. Perhaps it's meant to say £1,134" said the lady of the house.

I read and re-read the advert, utterly amazed at how cheap the offer was; double-checking that I hadn't mis-read it or missed some small-print. But it all seemed legit, a bona fidi bargain-not-to-be-missed!

"We've got to do it!" I yelled, "We've got to phone and book it RIGHT AWAY! They're bound to sell out in no time - Everyone in the country will be buying tickets!"

I rushed for the phone and began to dial. My heart was beating triple speed as I pictured myself standing amidst the ancient statues of Easter Island, watching the cosmic grandeur of a solar eclipse taking place in the clear Pacific skies above.
Then my alarm went off and I woke up....Out of curiosity I typed "Easter Island Eclipse" into google this morning - Turns out there IS one happening in line with the Island, but not till 2010...Maybe I'll try and be there for that!

A rude awakening...

2006-03-07T03:47:00.000-08:00

I was having a very pleasant dream, which at the time was very vivid and seemed full of wonderful ideas, and I remember thinking "Wow, I've got to remember this when I wake up!". Next thing I know a bolt of searing pain struck me and flowed over my face. At first I thought this was part of the dream, but within a second I'd awoken to discover that the pain was all to real...
My nose was in agony and the culprit was a heavy, flaying fist that lay twitching on the pillow beside my head, innocently attached to the body of my still sleeping girlfriend. I got up and went to the bathroom to inspect the damage. No blood, thankfully. Slight swelling, perhaps, but no apparent bruising. But it hurt so much! I started to worry that maybe it was broken.
"Oh, God, I bet she's fractured my delicate nasal cartilage" I thought to myself.

Through drowsy, hypochondrial eyes I began to view the nose from every angle, fretting that the injury had rendered it noticeably lopsided or seriously misaligned. The more I looked at it the more crooked and plain "wrong" it seemed to be. Lack of sleep and the on-set of paranoia combined to the extent that I was almost hallucinating - My nose looked completely different to me. Like someone had come along and given me a nose transplant in the middle of the night. In the end I hardly recognized myself...Not just the nose, but my whole face.

After staring so intently at my reflected nose for so long everything seemed to blur and in my bleary vision my entire face seemed alien and strangely unfamiliar. I gave up examining it and staggered back to bed, muttering expletives, absolutely shattered and decidedly unhappy about the prospect of having to face life with an unwanted new nose.

When I awoke it looked pretty much as per normal...Well, as normal as I can remember - I mean I never really paid that much attention to my nose before. Not that I neglected its existence. It's just one of those things you take for granted I guess. Anyway, the entire incident has left me slightly apprehensive about the possibility of future bed-time assaults. I mean I try to be sensible and avoid risks during my waking hours - But what's the point if I'm liable to be attacked at any minute of the night, whilst lying prone in the supposed safety of my own bed!

Bird Flu Zombies

2006-02-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

The entire dream was lit and "shot" like a 50's B-Movie. There was even some sort of narration, commenting on the unfolding drama...Anyway, as far as I remember, it all began with a scene at an Ice Rink. People were merrily skating around, carefree, laughing; oblivious to the awful tragedy that was about to befall them. But somehow I was aware that things were about to turn very nasty. Maybe I'd had some premonition, or perhaps I'd been given a tip-off - what ever the reason - I had foreknowledge of the coming disaster, and as such I had a little precious time in which to prepare and ensure my survival. (The narrator gruffly voiced something akin to "ONLY ONE MAN KNEW THE TRUTH..."). I pushed through crowds of ignorantly happy people, all watching the skaters and enjoying their day, "Get out of my way!" I shouted , as I began to run. I remember thinking something along the lines of "these poor idiots - if only they knew" as I dashed and sprinted, weaving my way past people. A stream of doomed, smiling faces - "At least they'll die happy" I thought to myself.

As I was running I heard someone out on the ice start to scream...I turned and looked over my shoulder. A young woman had fallen over and was screaming, pointing at her legs. "Its beginning..."I whispered under my breath. A crowd began to form around the woman, watching in horror as her legs writhed and squirmed, splitting the fabric of her trousers. Her legs banged tightly together and then, to the shocked gasps of all those watching, they began to fuse together - moulding themselves into one single appendage. The toes began to transform, growing into yellowy claws; the skin transformed itself into hard, brittle, goose-bumped flesh. Finally it became apparent that the woman's legs had morphed into one giant chicken leg. People began to flee from the ice, screaming and shouting in terror...The woman sprang up on to her one big chicken leg and began to hop menacingly towards the shore, her eyes glazed over; zombiefied!

Next thing I know I'm busily rummaging through cupboards and drawers and packing a bag - full of survival essentials; tinned food, water sterilization kits, pen knife's, torches etc (by the way, bar the tinned food, I actually own none of these items in real life) . I slung the bag over my shoulder and frantically ran down a long set of spiralling stairs, crashed through some doors and started to race through an underground car park, leaving a wake of sweat behind me. I jumped in my car, turned on the radio and sped off. The news blared out of the speakers..."reports indicate that the disease is spreading at an unprecedented pace..." I suddenly thought "Damn! I'm going to need a wind-up radio - only wind-up radio's will work soon!". As I was thinking this, some one staggered out in front of the car...For a second I panicked, but as the car hit them and they went over the windshield I could plainly see that I'd only hit a zombie. It was at this point that I began to look more closely out of the windows. All around me, on the streets and clambering across the roads, were hoards of crazy-eyed, chicken-legged, bird flu zombies. Without mercy I found myself ploughing them down, so appalled was I by the grotesque hopping beasts.

I screeched to a halt outside a shop and made a mad dash for the door. Safely inside I started searching the deserted super-market for a Wind-Up Radio. I managed to find one, but when I back outside my car was gone! "Oh, Sh..." I thought and started running for it...

Next thing I remember is seeing a huge city far off on the horizon, in the direction I was running. I remember thinking "That looks like New York...but it can't be, because there's only one world trade centre tower on that horizon". Then it dawned on me that I was looking at the next city that was going to be attacked. I stopped running and trying to figure out what city it was from the distant silhouettes of the buildings...For some reason I was momentarily convinced it was a city in Germany. "It must be Berlin!" my dream self said, "That's Al-Quedia's next target!". But then, in the next moment, I'd change my mind and became concluded it was Seattle..."That cityscape looks just like the beginning of Fraiser" I thought,. Convinced that Seattle was in grave danger of an impending cataclysmic terrorist attack I ran, faster and faster, hoping I could get there in time to somehow prevent it....

Alas, I awoke before I'd had the chance to warn anyone...

Rollercoaster

2005-11-24T03:27:00.000-08:00

I was waiting in line, part of a mammoth queue that snaked past famous London landmarks like Big Ben, the Eye and the houses of parliament. I wasn't too sure what the queue was for but everyone seemed very excited. After awhile the queue moved forward enough for me to see that there were humongous metallic rails stretching over the Thames, twisting and spiralling between the skyscrapers over our heads. And speeding along the rails, gleaming in the sunshine, was a giant rollercoaster. It was the latest "London Eye" type initiative and everyone was flocking to have a go.

In waking life I don't really like rollercoasters, but in my dream I didn't seem too apprehensive (although I do remember thinking it was a prime target for a terrorist attack). Anyway, all at once I was at the head of the queue and realized I needed the toilet. I was directed to a little wood hut. I went inside and entered a cubicle, unbuckled my belt and prepared to relive myself...then abruptly stopped when I noticed there was no lock on the cubicle door and it was swinging wide open. I heard someone else entering the shack so I quickly pushed the door closed and held it shut with my foot.

For some reason I couldn't relax enough to continue my bowel and bladder ebullitions whilst I had company in the hut, so I waited till I heard the man leave. But no sooner had he gone than I heard the sounds of another person entering to take his place...As you can probably guess, this pattern then continued ad infinitum (until I awoke), one person would enter as another one left. The result being that I was "trapped" in the cubicle - increasingly desperate to let loose, but too pernickety about having some "privacy" to do so. This in itself was frustrating but as time passed I knew I was missing my go on the rollercoaster to boot. Typical.

Snowing

2005-11-07T08:30:00.000-08:00

Dreamt I was wondering around Paris last night...Probably something to do with all the rioting that's going on there. Anyway, after lots of odd un-related happenings (at one point I was walking a dog naked) it ended with me sitting on a rooftop. Staring out over the city I could see that hundreds of children had climbed up onto their rooftops and we were all of us gazing up at the sky, absolutely amazed to see that it was snowing. Out stretched hands eagerly caught the falling flakes and I remember thinking "It's as if they've never seen snow". Then everyone started singing a touching, Christmas hymn type tune which had the chorus "It's Snowing in Israel". Then I realized that I wasn't in France anymore. This was Israel, and like the song said, it was snowing.

Cheese Curtains

2005-11-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

The mugwort didn't work the other night. Although the night after I ate loads of cheese (for the first time in ages as I was struck by a dairy aversion earlier this year. Or to be more specific an ovine-dairy aversion. Woke up one day and suddenly abhorred the idea of eating anything that came from a cow. Goats cheese/milk on the other hand I don't have a problem with. Goats are noble, beautiful beasts; they're resourceful, stubbornly proud, mountain climbing creatures. Whereas cows are these obese, plodding, crap-making factories. If I was stranded without supplies in some arid God forsaken place, a lack of liquid leaving me no choice, driven by desperation to sup from the teat of a wild animal - I'd pick the goat over the cow every time! I mean who in their right mind would put their lips round the swollen, sweaty mammaries of a heffa! Why put yourself through that? Especially when you could suckle on the petit, pink nipple of a well groomed goat? Maybe the caveman who heralded in the odd fashion of drinking cow's milk did so because the cow was one of the few animals slow & placid enough to allow the "experiment" to proceed...Otherwise I'm sure the caveman would of chosen a more glamorous target; some swift, agile, sabre-toothed, multicoloured, hornbacked pinnacle of predatory perfection...If Tesco's sold tiger milk I'd certainly give it ago).

Anyway, sorry, I tigress (ho,ho)- Yeah, so I ate cheese the other night at Old Boy's dinner party (jolly good bash it was too!). I didn't intend to but a cloud of wine and port rained down my throat and dissolved my dietary inhibitions. So I desecrated the dairy-fee temple of my body with cheddar, stilton and some gooey, creamy no-trust-me-it-tastes-better-cos-its-mouldy stuff I'd never normally touch. Cue the old wife's tale of cheese & nightmares being at least partly true...Nothing scary happened but I certainly had some very odd dreams.I won't bore you with the far too fragmented details, however there was one episode I'd like to recount:

I was walking along a beach, beneath a picturesque pier that could of been in Brighton or some such, when I happened to notice a bomb hiding in the shadows of the pier's wooden frame.
What struck me as odd was that it was the atypical ACME type bomb that you see in old cartoons - you know, the big round cannon-balls type with the protruding fuses; the kind the coyote constantly tries to kill the roadrunner with (why do kids find it so funny to watch the futile attempts of those with murderous intentions?...see also Tom & Jerry, etc, etc...Does it appeal to some innate sense of justice at watching the "killer" face his comeuppance or is there just something inherently funny about violence backfiring? If one of the world's nuclear powers took aim at a neighbouring country, cocked up their calculations, and the deadly missile U-turned mid-flight; would we all be chuckling as they got self-nuked?)
When I saw the animated bomb under the pier the fuse was lit, burning slowly down, yet I felt completely nonplussed. Walked on by thinking "none of my business". Then a short while later a gust of guilt hit me..."what if it blows up and hurts loads of people", so I turned back, picked it up and threw it in the sea. Then I strolled down the promenade; stepped on a large "speaking scales" machine's, was shocked to be told I'd put on 3 stones!
Woke up feeling bloated and slightly ashamed at my blasé attitude to the bomb.

In waking life I had a nasty scare the other night. But first a little back story:

Once upon a time my good lady and I moved into a new flat. It was small but cozy and boasted a fantastic view of that dirty little pool of life we call London. The place was pretty pristine and the previous occupant had hired a professional carpet cleaner to ensure the cream coloured fibres flawlessly greeted us upon our arrival. The furniture was sparse but as time passed the pagan God Ikea blessed and provided us with all our decor desires. The last such gift bestowed upon us were the living room curtains. Cream like the carpet; a simple design. The curtains were the crowning glory of the flat, the final jewel in the crown of co-habiting contentment. But I could take no credit, for my good lady had perceived their need whilst I had seen no urgency. Yet now they hung there, indispensable, softening the dawns sharp glare and barring warmth's departure.

Then one night, when all were sleeping, some mischievous gnome crept within and stole the light from our living room. For the following day I did discover that both bulbs in the living room lamp had mysteriously blown. The lady of the house then travelled north, to stay a long weekend. Left alone I undertook a heroic quest to acquire replacements, but the peculiar size and specification (R80 plug-in's) proved incredibly elusive. Selfridges, John Lewis's and Woolworth's let me down. Then, when hope was all but gone, I pried open the doors of my local Indian hardware emporium and found the pearly treasures. I took them home and plugged them in; the lamp besides the window. Sowing the seeds of my own disaster.

A rendezvous, the very next day, brought me to the Flask (a snug and tasteful Highgate pub) to find the Old Boy waiting. We spoke at length, of many things, converting beer to laughter, and soon were joined in revelling by Vicky and by Sarah. As time was called I rose and drunkenly declared "back to mine, we'll have more wine" and homeward we embarked. Back in the flat we sat and staggered, mumbling of hunger whilst pulling corks from new bought bottles. Hazy, confused conversations flowed; spoken louder than was needed. Occasionally a flash of sobriety would strike, prompting me to say "Be careful guys/ Don't spill that drink/Please try to keep the noise down" but little did I care. Then suddenly Sarah enquired "What's that smell? Like burning...?" We sniffed at once, eyes all darting, searching for the sulphurous culprit. "It's the curtains!" someone cried. There by the window those traitorous, arsonist, R80 bulbs were blatantly torching the curtains! "60 watt bastards!" I thought to myself. Somebody screamed; a female voice, but it may have been mine. "Water. Get Water!" I yelled, frozen to the spot. Old boy (no doubt still in hero mode from the method-acting of his latest film) rushed forwards with a wet towel and we soon all followed suit. With soaking kitchen cloths we killed the infant fire before it could grow into a fearsome giant. As we daubed the soldering embers of the curtain ash coughed and spluttered all over the room and a thick, throat-clenching smog swallowed the air. "Open all the windows; all the doors" we wheezed to each other, thankful to be alive.

Then, as the dust metaphorically settled and the ash literally did, I felt I had wandered into the kingdom of commercials and somehow wound up in a humorous Yellow-Pages-type advert and a manic panic sent in. "My girlfriend's back tomorrow! We only got those curtains last week! She's going to kill me!"...I turned on the lights to survey the damage...I almost wept. The curtain resembled a huge charred donut; more hole than fabric. The once cream carpet was now Dalmatian; a hundred and one ash smudges staining its skin. I got out the hoover, poured myself another glass of vino and wished I could just wake up.

Dreamer's Block

2005-10-26T06:31:00.000-07:00

Damn it... really want to add to my blog but haven't been remembering my dreams in any sufficient detail for the last few nights.

I think I'll make myself some Mugwort tea tonight. I buy it every now and then from Neal's Yard (this herbalist shop in Covent garden where they stock loads of herbal remedies etc). Can't remember why I got it the first time - think I just liked the name "Mugwort" (sort of sounds magical...a bit like a mixture of Muggles and Hogwarts come to think of it).

Before I brewed my first cup I decided it was best to do some preliminary research - just to make sure I wasn't about to imbibe a deadly substance. Good thing I did really as, although it tastes great (slightly bitter yet strangely soothing) I discovered it can be toxic in large quantities. So, as with so many things in life, the law of "everything in moderation" again applies...

I hate that "law" - why is it that almost everything in life is bad for you in excess - wouldn't it be great if something's were better for you if you overdid them...Imagine if alcohol was only bad for you if you just drank one pint a day, but benefited your body if you had ten or more pints.

Anyway, turns out that Mugwort was renowned in folklore as a herb that could bestow prophetic dreams if drunk or placed beneath your pillow. Can't say I've ever definitely dreamed of the future but I've certainly has some weird, incredibly vivid "mugwort trips". So may try it out again tonight...

In the mean time hope you enjoy the photo - It's me, some fish, some coral and the red sea. I spent a week snorkelling around Sharm El Sheik last year. Was great fun but had "snorkel fever" for the following fortnight.

N.B Snorkel Fever isn't a real medical term, its just what I christened my condition...The main symptom was dizziness. It felt like the ground was bobbing up and down, mimicking the rhythm of the sea. Then there were the dreams - "wet dreams" if you will - of fish, fish and more fish. Such very vivid dreams. Big fish, little fish, red fish, silver fish - all darting to and fro in front of my eyes, swimming this way and that, eyeballing me with their huge, squishy eyes...

I began to wonder if I'd been condemned to a life-time haunted by fishy dreams; but thankfully the fever eventually subsided, my sense of balance returned and, thank cod (ho,ho), can't recall dreaming of fish since.

Melissa Spittle...a borderline nightmare

2005-10-21T09:14:00.000-07:00

Yes Sir, I can boogie. But I need a certain song. I can boogie, boogie woogie - All night long.

Odd dream last night. I was up in my office when I got a call. A student was downstairs waiting to see me. I asked for their name, “Melissa Spittle” was the reply. I don't know any such person and I didn’t recognize the name.
I wondered downstairs, looked around the lobby for someone who might fit the description of a “Melissa”. There were various students milling about, none of whom I recognized. So I called out “Melissa Spittle?”.
“Yeah” snorted a middle aged woman lying down on the seats and obviously inebriated.

This woman was in a right state; eyes wildly rolling, saliva dribbling down her chin. Real mess. Her blouse was unbuttoned and her bra-less middle-aged breasts scurried in and out of view (I tried to avoid them). Her hair was greasy and unkempt and in one hand she clutched a bottle of air infused with the dregs of some dark and deadly wine. I tried to ignore her startling appearance and maintain a professional manner.

“How can I help you?” I politely enquired.
“Er…You can get me a Taxi, my love”

I duly obliged and, in what seemed like seconds, a black cab arrived. Then , as sometimes happens in dreams, for no logical reason I got into the taxi with her. Perhaps I had decided to make sure she got to her destination safely. Or maybe it was just a moment of madness. Anyway, we drove off; me sitting on one of those fold down seats, her lying on the back seat incoherently mumbling, slipping in and out of her stupor. I remember worrying that she might be sick, but thankfully this did not transpire.

At first we sped along and seemed to travel a great distance in a short time. It grew dark outside and I felt the taxi climbing a steep and winding slope. The journey, to wherever we were going, seemed to be taking an awfully long time and I began to worry..

"How will I get back?”… "How much is this going to cost?”… "I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay!”

Then it suddenly dawned on me that I had absolutely no idea where we were going. A paranoid panic started to set in. I began to feel like I’d somehow being duped. I tried to recollect whether or not Melissa Spittle had told the driver where to go, but I just couldn’t remember. At this point Ms Spittle seemed to remarkably sober up. She sat up and stared at me with a look of harsh disdain, dropping all attempt at pretence. So I bluntly confronted her –

"Where are you taking me?"

She replied with a wicked, malicious laugh. That sort of drunk-guffaw that really annoys you when your sober.

“Where are we going?”

Melissa Spittle smiled and then screamed “I’m taking you HOME” – as she said these words the car suddenly accelerated and I felt the taxi plunging into nothingness, and somehow I knew we’d driven straight off the edge of a cliff.

As the car plummeted into darkness Melissa Spittle just kept on cackling…

Then I woke up. It was 6.25am, still dark outside. I couldn’t get back to sleep.

Was bored at work (as usuasl) . So, out of curiosity, I typed the name “Melissa Spittle” into google. I wanted to see if anyone of that name really existed. Turns out there is (at least) one. Her name’s listed on this website: http://www.montva.com/departments/bos/reassessment/dl_files/reassessment_values_03_sn_sp.pdf

She lives at 1484 Oilwell Road in Montgomery County, USA.
I can’t help wondering if she has a penchant for red wine or if she had strange dreams last night…

Yes Sir, I can boogie,If you stay, you can’t go wrong. I can boogie, boogie woogie - All night long