“I dunno, it just feels as though there has to be a better way to organise Christmas than on a minimum damage basis, you know?”
I nodded, but took my cue nonetheless to pour out more of the single malt that we had been drinking since dinner had ended some hours before. The ashtray had the stubs of more cigars than I was happy with and yet the evening, had become one of those special times when opinions are tempered in the forge of debate and the whole world is put to rights by three friends, armed only with good scotch and no desire to sleep.
“I guess I am blessed”, I said as I put the stopper back into the bottle; “Christmas has always been a happy time for me. Single or in love, child, boy or man I have always felt the love of family and friends, the sense that we are all together, in spirit at least as the year ends and we look forward to the new. Who watches what on the TV, and who got what as presents has never really featured as long as some of us could be together.”
“You are lucky. That’s for damn sure.”
These days I seem to be remembering my dreams more and more, whereas in the past I can barely remember being able to recall even the slightest detail about my night-time imaginings, I seem to remember something in great detail once or twice a week at the moment…
For example, last week I had a dream that I was at Eleanor’s grandparents’ bungalow in a little suburb of Harwich (I can’t remember what it’s called) when I saw a helicopter ditch in the shallows of the sea. I rushed down to the beach to find that the pilot had clearly been able to effect a ‘soft” auto rotation landing and the aforementioned whirlybird was standing in about 3 feet of water with a rather shaken pilot sitting on the beach looking at his craft. I wandered over to talk to him only to discover that it was in fact Marcus Brigstocke(sp?), at least in looks, but he had a non-descript voice and he kept going on and on about the water that had gotten onto his thigh-pad that had smudged his notes from the flight, as if the helicopter falling out of the sky was not actually that much of a problem.
Then last night I had a really odd dream about being asked to go and assist on a professional photoshoot, only to discover that the photographer I was going to be assisting was Philip Wilkinson – the chap behind Crowdstorm that I used to work for. Now, please don’t misunderstand that this freaks me out in my waking / normal mode; Phil is a great guy and despite the fact that me working with him did not work out I have a ton of time for the guy, but he really is no photographer, you know? In my dream he had this amazing state-of-the-art studio space in Hoxton, and a bundle of spiffy cameras and a bunch of great work (of his own) on the walls in the reception, and he was shooting for Chanel and YSL etc. The shoot was a series of ‘editorial’ style shots for The Pussycat Dolls – I MEAN OMG!
I know that dreams are rarely any more mysterious than the unconscious sorting stuff out and filing thoughts and memories while we sleep, but these two really do stand out as weird…