The fullness of the moon disturbs my sleep bringing both ridiculous yet disturbing dreams. One of the ones from last night involved me seeing a doctor (who happened to be the red-haired bloke who played the dentist who had a thing with Trixie in Call the Midwife) who told me I had this condition and he spouted out a long latin name which required him to pump my ‘downstairs’ with water. I baulked at his use of the word even in my sleep (he laughed when I told him about it this morning) – and then when the consultation concluded he abruptly turned round, ignoring me completely and began chatting up the nurses.
We were sitting by the edge of the ‘Col Field’ as he calls it, in the sun, flouting the rules in the name of Vitamin D when I saw her. Isn’t that T? I said, from the cafe? He wasn’t sure until she came closer. I’ve always liked her. There is something steady about her. And she has a style, yesterday she was sporting some particularly flamboyant slacks. She doesn’t know my name but manages to fudge it. She been out getting food for her cat, she told us. What’s your cat’s name? he asked her. Patrick, she said. It helped. It helped her obvious stress at having to close their business, and the losses that this has incurred. It helped to distract her. She turned her attention to recounting how Patrick was faring during this strangeness. He used to go out when we were at work, she said, now he’s in all the time. Poor love. She has savings. We’ve worked hard for them, she says, it seems unfair to use them. I know. I know.
Bless you, bless you all. Will he die?