Monday, October 02, 2006

dublin, dundee, humberside

Bad dreams. For some reason at the moment I am prone to the sort of Sunday night pre-work dread that I haven't experienced for years. It's exceptionally dull, especially at 3.27am (precisely).

I walk into a large white reception area, complete with sweeping desk and a distinguished, suited receptionist who appears to have wandered in from The Third Man. He pushes a small off-white envelope towards me. My initials are on the front. As I take it I hear someone remark 'no, just ignore her'. I go and sit on an upholstered white dining chair in the middle of the room, and pour the contents of the envelope into my palm. It's a shell necklace. Large, and folded. Shell necklaces don't fold I think, and involve myself in the intricacies of something which should not happen. There are small holes drilled into the shell, and little leather rivets which allow it to fold. Ah, OK.

Without warning I realise that I am going to be killed, any moment. In fact, someone is probably lining up a shotgun with my chest even as I am sitting on this chair. I tense, but it is inevitable. I am going to die. On this chair. I sit and wait for the impact.

When I wake up to blunder towards the bathroom I notice a distinct listing to the right. This happens several times. I am clearly far too sick to work. As my mother has been correctly predicting for the past 39 years, I feel better when I get there.

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