I Had A Dream

I had a dream last night – perhaps someone could explain it for me; I can’t remember the details of all of it but..... no, wait a minute, I can! Even though it was an unfinished story in my sleep, I can actually remember everything that happened in it – so I take that back. It is the morning after and I am writing (yes, writing!) this in my A6 Handy Jotter (50 sheets, Wide Ruled, 25p, 5 for a £1) with something called ink – a new invention, I believe; anyway, it seems to work. I am writing because I am having to dispense real ale to the local populace at the pub’s Easter Beer Festival and I don’t have access to my compluter. Ah, yes! The dream. Well, I was just emerging from the hospital in Winchester (It was definitely Winchester - don't ask me why). I say ‘the’ because I remember being imbued with an overwhelming sense of its – well – mainness, as opposed to an institution which would only be likely to earn the prefix ‘sub’. I don’t actually know if there is a major hospital in Winchester! Anyway, my emergency from the hospital had taken place (see what I did there?) and, apparently, it was just after midnight. I needed to get a bus back to Ringwood and, just as that thought struck me, one pulled up alongside me and the driver opened his window, smiling knowingly. I say ‘knowingly’ because something told my subconscious he was well aware of my destination. “There are still buses,” he said, “they go through Numpkeith, Turdlebridge and Goonhandle.” Yes, I’ve never heard of them either. So I was quite anxious to establish whether these buses bothered to carry on to Ringwood after arriving at and possibly sampling the fleshpots of Numpkeith et al. The driver promptly leapt from his seat and headed down the road at a rate of knots – walking backwards. I was desperately trying to keep up with him, but he was always irritatingly out of earshot. When a café hove into view, he turned to walk forwards and dashed in; I managed to catch sight of him joining some kind of queue inside. I chased after him and found myself running around a metal perimeter barrier which surrounded a large wooden-floored area, almost like a ballroom, but which contained a long snaking line of customers. I spotted the bus driver’s uniform and leapt over the barrier, heading towards it. In the meantime, the driver, situated about halfway along the queue, had changed into an old woman. In my dreamificational state of mind, this seemed quite a normal state of affairs and, as such, occasioned no surprise whatsoever. Suddenly, three security guards started yelling and gesticulating at me quite violently, in an effort to stop me from pushing in. I tried to shout that I was simply trying to speak to someone in the queue but, as you might guess, these words were refused audible utterance – a common ploy of the Dreamweaver Bastard! Then one of the security guards caught up with me; he was 3 feet 6 inches tall and shaped like a pear and, when he started raining punches on my midriff, it didn’t hurt………. Now, that’s about all I can remember but, although the nature of her involvement is not entirely clear to me, I am positive that a naked blonde lady figured in it somehow. Well, it was just a dream, after all! Go in peace, my friends, if only to Goonhandle and no further!