Slipping off the surly desk manacles
Vivid dream just before we got out of bed this morning. I was trying to stop a child from falling, held onto his Guernsey jumper, but he slipped out of it and tumbled onto a harbour floor at low tide and was horribly injured. I blame Anton for banging on about Guernsey jumpers the other day. Feel like Frasier Crane this morning. What did the little boy represent? Me? My inner child? Something precious I was unable to hold onto, and if so what? Or did it mean absolutely nothing? A chat with the Tobster this morning, now safely at Mum's place, and having tramped about in Hampstead with Mum yesterday afternoon. I am meeting Mum and Toby up in London on Friday, which I am really looking forward to. I sketched out a new idea for a short story, but far more seductive was the idea of slipping off the surly manacles of work and walking about in the sun, a spot of 'if in doubt tidy' tidying, reading and watching Apollo documentaries. Too much of this sort of thing, however,...