Last night I dreamed I was to meet my mother at a London underground station but I had forgotten which one. Marble Arch? No. I had an old mobile phone with no numbers entered in it and no way to contact her, or my sister who seemed to be part of the plan too. I had been at the optician's and they had very kindly (and without my bidding) ordered me a taxi. It was huge and open-backed more like a sort of horse-drawn cart, and about fifteen people got into it with me. I was agitated as I didn't know where I needed to go. I asked and asked if anyone had a tube map, and eventually someone found one, but (as always in these dreams) it was incomprehensible, showed the wrong thing, the lettering too small to read etc etc.
I woke up and went back to sleep, returning to a sort of continuation of this dream, in which, eventually, I was reunited with my mother, a child burying her face in a towering adult's midriff.
1 comment:
Again I have comment disappearance woe. Early this morning I left a comment along the lines of how I love this, particularly the mix of pathos and sweetness of the conclusion and the fact that, in order to complete the journey, consciousness has to be dipped into. And now I'm reduced to leaving a grumpified and spavined version. So I shall read the post again and reposition myself on the rails of equilibrium :-)
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