Cheese Supper

Harold had a bit of on odd dream last night. “Not exactly a nightmare,” he said to me over breakfast, “but disturbing nonetheless.”

“We were in Newcastle – land of stotties and brown ale – and staying in a terraced B&B for our summer fortnight’s holiday. It was our leaving day and we were packing up our belongings to take home, including several crate of books that I’d decided to take on holiday and the glass cabinet full of knick-knacks and sporting trophies from the main hall, all of which had to be individually wrapped.

“The landlady shooed us out and were on the road, near the bus station. Lucy, who had aged about six years, was already on a bus. We climbed aboard but the driver said there was no room on the ground floor but there were plenty of seats downstairs. We went down a spiral staircase into a glass walled area with seats all aroung. Lucy was at the back looking out onto a landscape that was filled with people doing odd things, like underground cricket and reading books without gloves on.”

He looked at ne with terror in his eyes. “Then the bus took us to a firework party. What did it all mean?”

“Harold, Harold,” I said. “It was all a dream.”

“I know that,” he said, “but what’s your interpretation of it?”

I shrugged. I never was very good at dreams. “You’re either worried about Lucy growing up and not being able to control her, since she’s part fairy, part angel…”

“or?”

“Or you ate that cheese for supper. I told you it was mouldy.”

Image: The Element Encyclopedia of 20,000 Dreams