Pat and Petrova

Had loads of weird dreams last night but the details all got lost within a few seconds of opening my eyes – only bit I retained was that I was at a house party where someone kept mentioning to me the name “Petrova” over and over again, so I made an effort to remember it as I woke up.

The name means absolutely nothing to me, so I googled it this morning – it’s Russian and the first thing that comes up on google is about a tennis player called Nadia Petrova, who I’ve never previously heard of....I have no idea why the name seeped into my sleeping mind.

Meanwhile, my little boy (2 and a bit years old) has been having nightmares about – of all things – Postman Pat! The other night he was tossing and turning in the midst of a deep sleep, violently shaking his head this way and that and wildly gesticulating as he cried out  -screaming  in a tone that sounded like a mix of utter horror, mingled with total despair and a dash of pure terror – “PAT...PAT...PAAAATTTT!” over and over again, at the top of his little lungs. God knows what the neighbours must have thought. It sounded like he was being attacked by some notorious pyschopath called Pat.

It was quiet disturbing really. But what intrigues me is what on earth could be so terrifying about Postman Pat? What terrible, horrendous things could possibly be happening in his colourful, cosy, clay, stop-motion world?

Deathday cakes...

Only recall mere snippets – but my main dream last night revolved around the theme of an organisation that specialised in “Deathday” celebrations. I was either a new employee for the company or I was just being shown around their premises as a visitor, but someone was explaining to me about everything they did.

They were trying to commercialise death and make it something that was celebrated, in the same way that birthday celebrations can generate big business. They wanted to encourage the public to have “deathday parties” and buy  themed products from them –like deathday cakes and “happy death day” wrapping paper and cards etc

One of their other money spinners involved creating video recordings of people – speaking on a various range of topics – in order to preserve a record of their thoughts, opinions, random rants and raves, jokes and musings on life etc before their deathday occured. These were then all edited down into a “thought for the day” type format and turned into 30 second or less clips that were turned into some sort of phone app – which would let the person’s loved one’s download random “advice” or words of wisdom on a daily basis after they had died.

Just before I woke up I remember growing slightly suspicious because it emerged that they had some connection with the company Montsanto – this seemed to be in particular reference to the ingredients they used in their deathcakes...

Awake at last...

I've been asleep for a long, long time, but now I have awoken. Or, to put it more mundanely: I got distracted and forgot all about this blog a few years back. But now I'm back and will be reporting my dreams on a more regular basis...

Teaching Yoga

It was Christmas day, yet for some strange reason I found myself teaching a Yoga class. But knowing next to nothing about the practicialities of Yoga I was doing the best I could to blag my way through...

There were about 8 or 9 people in the class and many of them seemed surprisingly old. I remember thinking how frail and weak a few of them appeared. It was also very evident that they were absolute beginners, with even less knowledge of Yoga than me; hence my apparent ability to bamboozle them with my fradulent mastery of the Yogic arts.

"Why on earth are they spending Christmas Day trying to learn Yoga from me?" I wondered, "...And at their age?"

Anyway, I continued the class, confidently conning them all with a series of flamboyant, twisty moves that sprung up from my imagination. Standing before them all I would rapidly demonstate the next maneovre, in a swift, superficial manner that allowed me not to strain mysself in anyway yet somehow implied that I couldn't be bothered to show them the precise technicalities because I found the posture far too easy; it would be beneath me to spend my time demonstrating such amateur acrobactics.

To make myself seem more convincing I laced my instructions with detailed histories explaining the origins and philospophies behing the moves...giving each posture some ludicrous, exotic title
such as "Flight of the Pink Turtle" as I demonstrated it and then explaining which muscles it worked and how it benefit their lives in ever more fantastical ways...Occasionaly hands were raised and questions asked, but somehow I glided through, bombarded them with eastern jargon and complicated, incomprehensible answers...

So there I was, instructing a group that ranged from the middle-aged to the slighty decrepid, to stretch, tense, curve and curl their bodies into a maddening array of made-up stances. I was half enjoying myself - amused at making them perform ever more challenging and embarrasingly awkaward commands - whilst also worrying that any moment my true ignorance would be revealed.

Then suddenly a nasty, spine shivering CRACK bounced off the walls and echoed through the hall. It was the kind of sound that carries and conveys the unmistakeable vibration of something thats gone very, very wrong. It was an shrill chord of piercing pain. An ugly, ugly sound... Everyone turned to see a small, greay haired lady who'd collapsed whilst straining to perform an elaborate head-stand type feat, the details of which I'd briefly brushed over just moments before.

" My back" she whimpered "I think its broken"

Instant panic set in as I realised the enormity of the situation. I was a fake yoga teacher! No qualifications, no insurance, no legal safety-net! And my dis-honest incompetance had caused this poor old lady to suffer a ghastly, horrible injury.

I picked up a phone and tried to call an ambulance. But becasue it was christmas the operator said we may have to wait hours and hours...

Whilst I and the group sat round the old lady, waiting for the ambulance, I decided I'd better come clean...

The Queen is Dead

I woke, stumbled out of bed, made my way to the kitchen on automatic-zombie. Switched on the kettle, turned on the telly...

At first tiredness muffled the News caster's mournful mumbling of enunciated whispers. But as I sat, wiping away gooey white streaks of sleep from my eyes, the gravitas-laden tones of the BBC began to penetrate my consciousness:

"It's now thought that her Majesty the Queen passed away sometime between 3 and 4 am this morning. Early reports seem to confirm that her Majesty committed suicide..."

I sat slack-jawed. The Queen had killed herself! Reached for the remote control, turned up the volume, sat aghast as more revelations were revealed:

"We're now joined by Mr. Herbert Smythe, biographer and long-term confidante of the Royal Household. Mr. Smythe, as an authority on the Queen and her life, are you as shocked at the extraordinary manner of her death? I mean it seems so out of character..."

Herbert Smythe went on to postulate on what may have caused the Queen to take such drastic action. He explained that it was almost undoubtedly due to the recent publication in the press of private photographers from the Queen's youth. I wondered how I'd missed this recent furore, but thankfully the entire subject was quickly recapped -

It transpired that some sensational images of the young Queen had somehow "turned up" and been sold to the Tabloids. They were obviously form the "Swinging Sixties"; old, grainy, black and white prints imbued with the atmosphere of some stylish French film.

They were deemed so scandalous because they portrayed a casual, care-free Queen enjoying life with gay abandonment. There were shots of her pulling faces, flirting with the camera, smoking cigarettes, lazing and lounging in provocative poses and caught in romantic embraces with none other than Bob Dylan!

Herbert Smythe went on to explain that for a brief period, during Dylan's first visit to England, he and her Majesty had enjoyed an incredibly intense whirl-wind romance. The young royal, already besotted with his poetic lyrics, invited him to a secret dinner at Buckingham Palace. At that very first meeting her Majesty fell head over heels in love with the scruffy, beatnik bohemian and for a few fraught weeks their clandestine relationship threatened, not only to destroy her marriage, but to fracture the very foundations of the British "Establishment".

They failed to mention precisely how the Queen had chosen to take her life, but their seemed to be an unspoken implication that it was a gruesome, violent method, "too shocking" to reveal in any detail.

The Newscasters were visibly upset and ashen, correspondents voices were trembling and there long pauses of silent paper-fumbling, malfunctioning links and a noticeable lack of autocue. The studio was in disarray. No one had been prepared for this. And no one would be going to work today. Tony Blair had declared a national day of mourning.

The news rolled on in a continuous loop, but that particular segment ended with the News Reader's noting that:

"At present Bob Dylan has declined to comment"

Albert

Someone called Mike Pike (or similar) offered me a job. He always wore a suit and was a headmaster or professor at a prestigious educational residence. It was some sort of trainee, research position which also incorporated an element of teaching. I jumped at the chance, particularly as I had an avid interest in his area of expertise. It was a golden opportunity and almost seemed too good to be true!

On my first day there's the obligatory tour and introduction to staff and students. All seems fine and dandy but all day long I notice that Mike Pike seems, well, oddly on edge. He speeds up stairs and through corridors, scurrying along at a frantic pace. His eyes never stay still, they dart this way and that, scanning north, east, south and west; constantly on guard. He treats me with exaggerated courtesy, going out of his way to provide tea and snacks, extra furnishings for my room -

"Anything you fancy - Anything at all? No really. You name it, you've got it."

When we talk he's apologetically polite; intones my name with sugar-laden familiarity and tip-toes over details with a light, evasive air. In my mind he starts to take on the persona of a slimy, desperate car salesman or estate agent. I can't help but feel suspicious and begin to suspect he's keeping something from me...

He shows me the "Pool" (seemed like the sea or a natural lake, but all situated indoors) and we suited-up into scuba gear. His research seemed to involve the study of the bizarre flora, fauna and life-forms of the Pool bed). Down in the deep we swam, witnessing a magnificent, colourful array of strange never-before-seen-creatures. I felt honoured and privileged to be witnessing such wonders.

Then, as we climbed out of the pool, Mike Pike asks - in a quick, contrived, it's-now-or-never manner that betrays his reticence to say it:

"Oh, by the way, I did give you the letter didn't I?"

"Er, no. What letter?" I reply.

"Oh, it's just this letter we give to all new staff" Mike says as he magically produces it and hands it over.

I open the envelope and begin to read. Below is a roughly recalled summation of it's content:

Dear New Member of Staff
It is our pleasure to welcome you to Such & Such School. We hope that you will find your time with us both enjoyable and rewarding. We value and respect all our staff and believe it is through their contribution that the school achieves excellence. We trust that you will develop a fond relationship with our student body.
In particular we would like to make you aware of one of our students: Albert, whom some of the students have unkindly nicknamed "The Biting Boy". Albert is a warm and friendly child who shows much promise. Unfortunately, he has been known to bite both staff and students. It is for this reason that we recommend that all staff abstain from wearing shorts or short-sleeved shirts. It is recommended that you bare the minimum amount of flesh as possible so as not to facilitate one of Albert's fits.
In the event that you are bitten please be assured that recent medical checks have ensured that there is no current risk from rabies or infection of any kind.
We look forward to working with you.

Yours sincerely
Mike Pike

The letter scares me. But before I can ask Mike Pike any further details he rushes away. Leaving the pool building I'm caught in a throng of slowly marching, mingling students. Panic starts to set in as I nervously eye their faces, wondering if one of them is the notorious Albert...

"Hello, Sir" an innocent looking lad pipes up.

I casually nod acknowledgment, taking a couple of side-steps to distance myself from the group. Once they've passed, and no one's looking, I sprint away - hurtling for the safety of my room, haunted by the fear of an attacking Albert.

One-liner

Jumbled up, mish-mash of dreams last night. Only thing I can clearly remember is been sat in a pub and hearing someone shout "Welsh pack, lightening Jack!" over and over again...weird.