I Had A Dream

I got up at 2.30am with a blocked nose, which was stopping me from sleeping. I struggled with it for some time, sleep and the nose, but it was no good. I couldn't breath. I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, which is really rare for me, I find it hard to just lie in bed. If I am awake, I tend to get up. As I got up, Sam's voice came out of the dark. I thought I'd done a great job of not waking him as I got out of bed.

"What's wrong?"
"I can't breath."
"Have some herbal tea."
"Herbal tea?" I hate herbal tea. "What is that going to do?"
"Unblock your nose."
"Oh please? That muck."
"Dink the tea."

I drank herbal beef tea as instructed by Sam. It is not really beef tea, I just think it has that kind of taste about it.
The fire was still burning, I threw some wood on. Buddy came in briefly, but was restless and went back outside to his kennel. I sat with my back to the fire and intended to write something, but I simply wasted my life reading online news, the thing I claim not to do any more to my friends.

"Oh no, I stopped reading the news a long time ago," I say. 

That is not true, sadly, and I wonder why I continue with that particular myth. It is how I'd like it to be, not caring about what is going on in the world, it would be a much happier time, I reckon, if I did. Who thinks News is a drug? The morons in charge of the asylum at present are simply too depressing. Mr Rabbott and the fantastic 5 – Rabbott (the thug), Hockey (the fool), Morrison (the smiling assassin), Pyne (the yapping poodle), Brandis (the idiot) not to forget that simpering little bitch Hunt – who are simply governing for their own investment property interests, who are just too unbelievably awful to really be believed. And just when you thought the LNP had plumbed the depths of depravity as far as you think was possible, they add the worst one of the lot, that stunningly revolting creature Peter Dutton (the potato). Does any body else think The Curious Case of Benjamin Button when they look at Dutton?

I will hence forth refer to them as The Awfuls - grey-haired old men in ill fitting lycra suits who fly around the world bringing bullshit and misery to everyone with whom they come in contact. The Awfuls, no problem is too big, or too small, out of which we cannot lie our way. The Awfuls, give to the rich, take from the poor. The Awfuls, blindly going forth into the modern world, an understanding of which completely escapes every member. Climate Change deniers, science deniers, humanity deniers, self focused, loathsome.

I wanted to write, but I didn't. The morning seemed to speed up once I was sitting in the lounge room with the open fire warming my back. I seemed to be lying in bed for hours waiting for sleep to bypass my blocked nose in its coming, and it only seemed like a few minutes later, when I was awake and in the lounge room, when 2 hours had passed, just like that. 

Buddy grumbled at the back door. Grumbled isn't quite the right word. Bulldogs are noisy, you can pretty much always hear them, even if you can't see them, it is apart of their charm - not everyone agrees it is charm. Anyway, it is a breathing thing, you can hear the different tones of their snuffle. I could hear Buddy snuffling at the back door ready to come in. He lies next to me, actually, behind me, against my back and between me and the fire.

Milo got into my lap at 4.30 just as I was contemplating going back to bed, as is a cat's way.

I went back to bed with Buddy, my nose was still somewhat blocked up even after the herbal tea... and went straight to sleep. I dreamt that I was helping Roz (my sister) move to a very ornate area of terrace houses in Melbourne that I kept calling Canada. I drove there in a Subaru station wagon, (which is what Roz drives, but it was the old model, the one she used to own before the one she drives now) in the direction of Clifton Hill, from Fitzroy, with a Kelpie in the back and some neatly rolled joints in a Tupperware container, (actually, those disposable plastic containers you buy in the supermarket) sitting neatly on top of all of my sister's belonging piled up on the back seat.

The area where she was moving to was very clean and sparkling and neat. The roads were very wide more like open spaces which were undulating and hilly. The houses were very ornate, I think, I would call them Queen Ann Victorian. Roz had trouble finding her new house, and she kept wondering off to find it. I was pushed around in a wheel chair by a shirtless Adrian Greiner. Everybody, including old ladies, were flirting with me because I was a cripple, it seemed. They took no notice of Adrian.

The old ladies, of which there seemed to be a multitude, kept calling Roz’s new place the stables and they offered to show me where it was, as Roz dithered around some where out of sight.

“Oh yes, we have seen the empty stable and were wondering who was moving in,” said one old lady.

"Oh it will be lovely to have a man about the place," said another old lady, rubbing my face with her fingers, which were kind of dry like old brown paper.

"Oh no, it is my sister who's moving..."

"Do you play Bridge?" asked another.

"Pity," said the lady rubbing my face, as she rubbed my face again.

"Err, no," I said to the Bridge question.

"Pity," she said again.

I woke up again with a WTF thought at my dream. I had little mattress and not much doona. Of course, Buddy hogged a lot of the the bed, as bulldogs do. He was laying on his side up against Sam with his legs stretched out sideways taking up a quarter of the bed. I got up and pushed him, manhandled him, attempt to move the big lump across the bed, after which I was awake again. It was 8.30am.

My nose remained blocked and it proved difficult to breath. I still don’t really know why. Sam blamed my blocked nose on the Taiwanese fried chicken we ate in Little Bourke Street for lunch.