Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Weird week

Well, it has all been rather odd. I went to have a tooth taken out yesterday, for the first time ever. Ate a hearty breakfast as I didn't know when my next meal would be. Tooth out; left with gaping hole which was rather bigger than I was expecting. The dentist assured me that nobody really needs more than twenty teeth, but I feel that my chewing power has been drastically reduced. I schlepped around Cambridge with Sash for the rest of the day and then headed home, but as usual hadn't left enough time for dinner before the Parish Council meeting, so A and I had to make a dash for it. As usual, also, we were so cross afterwards that we came home and knocked back a couple of bottles of wine. We forgot to have any dinner. I think I may have eaten a piece of cheese and finished the pickled onions. Ugh.

I dreamed I was singing evensong, with my top half in a bath towel as of course I'd forgotten my clothes - dreams in which I've remembered to put my clothes on being a minority (honestly, you'd think I'd got a complex about it or something) - and the choir director mouthing the words of the first hymn for us as nobody knew it. For some reason we had to rush over to another chapel to sing the responses, and then my mobile phone alarm went off... at which point I discovered that it was 0645 and I had twenty-five minutes to get out of the house with Sasha. Normally I have ten, but have got everything ready the night before - but this time I'd spent it getting hammered. Boy, did I feel terrible.

Then I went to work and got made redundant. Actually, I think still having half my brain worrying about naked evensong probably helped in not making it too traumatic. But I had been with the company ten years - but then who gives a damn about companies: they don't exist. People are the thing worth caring about. Everyone was very sweet, especially considering tha I was one of about 35 people to get the push so was expecting sympathy to have run out rather.

So, time for bed. Is it true that hearing about other people's dreams is suprememly dull? Does anyone know that really nasty James Thurber story about a man who marries someone who interrupts him all the time to correct everything he says, and he starts talking about his dreams in desperation because they're the only private experiences he has, and slowly goes crazy? Thurber is brilliant - a short-story writer and cartoonist (his most well known is possibly "Well, If I called The Wrong Number, Why Did You Answer The Phone?", which was on my third-year exam on Comedy. A brilliant paper - though I was the only person in the exam hall who laughed out loud.)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

We have something in common, Beck, since most of my dreams involve forgetting to get dressed as well. I´m sorry to hear about you´re getting made redundant. Love, Iona xxx