Sunday Lunch anyone?

As the penultimate in the recent series of stories about dreams, I offer you a particularly spooky dream my eldest son had a couple of months ago while on holiday.

Amongst other things, he is a qualified Lifeguard and as such a very handy person to have around if you happen to be near water (eg. Bathroom, Kitchen etc)

Well his dream goes like this. He is walking past the swimming pool belonging to an adjacent block of flats and  becomes aware of somebody in difficulty at the far end. Of course, he doesn’t think twice, and launches himself in to save the flailing figure.

Automatically, he begins to carry out the rescue procedure, only to find out that as he does, his ‘victim’ begins to fight and force him under…. Now this wasn’t in his training programme. You expect a bit of resistance from petrified potential fishbait, but not this. This was a strong, fit young man who had obviously been lying, or more correctly´’floating’ in wait for him.

Anyway, cut a long story short, my son ‘saves’ the man and drags him out of the pool, by which time assistance has arrived…

(This is where it gets weird) … because of his demonstration of selflesness and public spirit he is rewarded by the local council with a civic reception in Uxbridge, followed by Sunday Lunch and an afternoon spent in the company of Harry and Jamie Redknapp!

Jamie and Harry. Sunday Lunch anyone?

Have a crack at that one, Sigmund.

© Andy Daly  2011

(For the benefit of my ‘Global’ readership, some of whom will not be familiar with the Redknapps: they are former Football (Soccer)player and now manager of Tottenham Hotspur, Dad Harry; and former player, now TV pundit, son Jamie. As random a pair as you could pick in the context of the above)

Recurring Dream 3: It’s got to mean something. What could it be?

I awoke pondering last night’s handiwork: St. Paul’s Cathedral and key buildings of architectural and/or historical interest in the Newgate St, Bishopsgate and Mansion House ‘triangle’ such as St.Mary le Bow and the Bank of England.

All done using Wickes’ kitchen unit remnants, Howden’s drawer fronts and some Jewson timber off-cuts.

My, I am tired. Where is this all going to lead?

© Andy Daly  2011

Tube map © ‘Londonist Guide to Alternative Tubemaps’

Not so funny…

I have this dream.

I am on an ugly, filthy, rusty ship with a vile crew of criminals and murderers. These aren’t comic-book or movie characters, these are the real deal. They bristle with aggression and violence and you know they would cut your throat as soon as look at you and feel no remorse.

There are no friends on this ship.

I am standing on deck looking back at the shore where I can just about make out my wife, with our two boys: standing together looking out towards the ship, and occasionally waving (although it is clear that while the ship may still be in view, no longer can they see me)

For my part, I am frantically waving, trying to get their attention. The story is that I’ve been press-ganged. Sitting innocently in a dockside bar I have been attacked and kidnapped, forced aboard this putrid vessel and put to work as a cabin-hand by day, chained to the deck rails by night. Forced against my will to work and fight as a member of this pirate crew.

But my family don’t know this. As far as they are aware, I have just taken myself off, possibly in search of some kind of adventure.  Never to return.  I will disappear. Missing – presumed dead.

As she and the boys begin to slip out of sight, I realise that for some strange reason, I can still clearly hear them, although when I try shouting out. It has no effect.

“Where’s Dad gone?” The Boys keep asking

“Why has he left us?”

“Is he coming back?

“Are we going to go too?”

She sighs “I don’t know, I don’t know … Come on … we had better get back …”

I shout and I shout “I love you, I’ll be back, don’t give up on me …”

But it’s of no use. They can’t hear me.

They become ever smaller dots on the shore until finally they disappear from sight and my ship of horrors slips into the inky blackness.

I am still waving and shouting.

Cry? No. If I started I’d never stop.

 © Andy Daly  2010