This morning, the morning of my birthday, I awoke early, having suffered one of my recurring dreams, in which I am summoned to an audience with a one-legged military dictator, who receives me with courtesy, and then gives me a demonstration of his power by stuffing cigarettes up my nostrils, then - retrieving them - chews on them until nothing remains but the cotton wool of the filters, which he spits triumphantly onto his hand .
As a card-carrying Freudian - Clement, not Sigmund - I am at a loss to explain this dream, but its recurrence may be related to the ubiquity on the television news of the indefatigible Mr George Galloway who, for all his defiance, suddence looks quite fatigible after all. Either that, or I should stop eating Toast Toppers last thing at night.
Still, the birthday post brought an unusual haul. The youth wing of the Peebles Showboaters - the Peebles Peewits - had clubbed together to buy me a collection of DVDs by Mr Alfred Hitchcock, which I look forward to watching, just as soon as I work out how to fit the discs in the tray of my slide-projector. There was a parcel of "cotton modal" socks, with "built-in Freshtech technology", a gift from Mrs Thricenightly, of the Selkirk Thricenightlys, who may have been making a point about the subtle perfume which wafts from my Polyveldts when the central heating at the church hall burns too fiercely. And there was a letter from the Vice President of the International Lotto Commission in Madrid, Spain, announcing that I had won 615,810 Euro in a prize draw which I had not knowingly entered.
Needless to say, this is splendid news, though the letter urges me to keep the information to myself, and forward details of my bank account so that I might be made rich overnight. Apparently, my service agent, Mr Danniel Gomez, awaits my call.
The news is most unexpected. The last time I was the beneficiary of what might be described as good fortune was in 1974, when I received a box of chocolates at a Beetle Drive in North Berwick, and was permitted to shake the hand of the Rt Hon Michael Ancram, QC, MP. On that happy occasion my joy was shortlived. Every one of the chocolates was Montelimar.
2 comments:
"it's" recurrence? An unusual "hall"? Dearie me, education wasn't what it is, was it?
The moral of this tale is never to dictate one's copy to a secretary while she is wearing oven-mitts and smelling strongly of sherry.
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