Dream upon dream, layer upon of vivid imagery of escalators, an old employer who’d become a college lecturer and for whom I was to work for, a hotel, who’s outside was made of glass and a couple of grey-haired men talking, one of whom was wearing green suede boots (rather like mine, actually). I was also sewing in one part of dream, trying to resolve a waking problem that has given me a tight knot in my left shoulder blade.
I walked regardless of the prediction of strong winds and lashing rain. The wind wasn’t strong and the rain didn’t lash. It was OK. I always feel better for braving it. And now the sky is clearing and I feel ready to take on the design problem I left unresolved yesterday. That is, with the help of tea….
I told him of Timothy Gedge over breakfast, one of Trevor’s Children of Dynmouth – an amoral, always smiling fifteen year-old who wreaks havoc with his spying on people of the town. Utterly devoid of empathy or compassion he bargains by promising to keep their secrets in return for help with his costume for a Spot the Talent Competition. I’m severely troubled by him. That’s what psychopaths are like, he says, but it’s only fiction. But is it?