A strange afternoon

AND ADVICE CAME - in a clerical collar, encircling the neck of the Reverend C. Harcourt-Burridge, or - as he likes to be called by his flock – ‘Cecil’. (Technically he doesn’t have a flock at the moment, the bishop having suspended him “pending an investigation.” He isn’t supposed to talk about it but it’s common currency in the Jolly Pervert) He called around three in the afternoon, on his way back from said pub. I could see he was tired and emotional: he fell over whilst trying to remove his cycle-clips.

He said he had come to see if he might borrow George’s snooker-cue: the tip having come off his own, and he had an important match that same evening. Actually, I think that was an excuse, and really he had called because he was in need of solace (and, truth to say, so was I). I said I would see if I could find the aforesaid snooker implement, and led him gently towards the sofa. He was asleep before I could remove his shoes.

Whilst my guest was sleeping I occupied myself with the Telegraph crossword. Having completed this in my usual 9 minutes, I turned to the front page. The main story was about that Bill failing to get through parliament: the one giving the police 90 days to hold terrorist suspects without bringing them to trial. I should jolly well think so, too! Why should the police be restricted to 90 days? They should be given an indefinite time (as, I understand, they have asked for) to keep people in the cells until they have enough evidence to ensure a conviction. And I would say to those pinko liberals, whingeing on about ‘civil liberties, the police don’t arrest people who are not guilty.

But wait a minute - they arrested me! Well ok, so they make the occasional mistake, but not about terrorists.

I woke Cecil up with a mug of black coffee, and told him about George’s letter.
He volunteered to drive me over to Swindleford himself. He advised against taking a room in the hospital, saying that the Star and Garter, in the town centre, had an excellent reputation for comfort and service; if I were agreeable, he would go on the Internet and see if he could book two rooms.

It is at times like this that one learns who one’s true friends are. I gladly accepted his kind offer, insisting of course that I pay for both rooms (and dinner) since he was giving so generously of his time. He demurred at first, and then reluctantly agreed. As he was leaving he asked if I might give him a small advance towards the cost of the petrol as he was waiting for a cheque to clear. I gave him twenty pounds, and he left by the back garden.

When he had gone, I poured myself a large gin and settled myself on the sofa – which was still warm. I fell asleep and had this dream.

I am in some kind of cathedral. It is beautiful but I have had enough of it, and am looking for the exit. The ‘cathedral’ is on several floors, with numerous corridors and rooms, and I cannot find the way out. Each route I try, each door I open leads on to another corridor or into another room.
I am getting a bit worried, when I meet George. He tells me to follow him – he knows the way out. I am sure that he does not, but I follow him anyway.
I suddenly find myself on a kind of balcony overlooking the knave, and down below George is talking to a man in a grey mackintosh. He shouts to me, excitedly ‘This is Mr…..’ and he seems to be pleading with the man to show us how to get out of the place.
When I get down the ‘man’ has become a tiny figure, lying on the floor, with arms and legs outstretched. I stamp on him viciously – again and again – and I flatten him, as if he were a rag doll.
Then I realise that this is a dream. I tell George and he says – yes, and I am in it to show you the way.
No – I say – but because it is a dream I can will the cathedral to disappear.
I make a real effort and the place just dissolves. It’s gone – I say. And I find that I am crying. But it isn’t with relief or happiness. Before me is a sort of grey industrial wasteland. In the distance I see old factories and derelict buildings.
And I realise I am still trapped.


Now what do you make of this? I think I may ask George about it when I visit him: he's got a diploma in 'therapeutic dreamwork', you know.