It was a dream, and I knew it was. The Prime Minister telephoned me. She’d handed me the phone. Had I been in her house? She was wearing a long, white cotton nightdress. Before I answered, I remember trying to work out what I could make his voice sound like. He wanted me to make a wedding cake, not for him but for a non-celebrity couple, a kind of everyman pair. I told him that I’d never made one before and it didn’t seem to matter. Can I make the crudities as well? I asked. (I also remember trying to find that word, mid-dream.) Then I had another dream in which I told P. all about the dream before, describing her nightie in detail and how Burnham’s voice kept fading.
Is there moon stuff going on?
And where is that smell of pine disinfectant coming from?
