The Eccentric Elderly Relative

No one I know from the waking world, but a woman was relating an anecdote about their eccentric elderly relative - it was either their Grandmother or their Great Aunt - As they told their tale the scenes played out before me...

"So, you see, she came to stay with us for a few weeks whilst she was recuperating" my dream companion explained.

A distinguished looking, silver-haired lady sat up-right in bed, a blanket round her shoulders. Delicately sipping a cup of steaming chai, a shiny tea tray perched on her lap, an open book resting on her pillow.

"She mostly stayed in bed. But she would insist on bathing daily".

Someone tightly turned the taps of a lavish looking bath, all gleaming marble and sparkling brass, frothing over with baby-soft bubbles.

"We usually left her to it, just checking on her now and then" the story-teller continued. "But on this one occasion..."

The woman in my dream stood by the closed bathroom door, straining to hear the signature splish-splashing that confirmed all was well. "Everything alright in there?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you dear" came a croaky reply. "But, would you mind bringing a flannel?"

The woman returned soon after, fresh flannel in hand. She knocked politely before easing the door open. The sight inside greeted her like a lion about to leap, and she reacted much the same, screeching out a nauseous chord and trembling with a fierceful fright.

Bubbling water swayed and slopped over the marble rim, dripping off a wrinkled hand, adorned with rings but hanging limply.

The old lady's head lay buried beneath the bubbles. Momentarily frozen the woman rushed forwards, slipping and sliding on the moist floor, squealing and shrieking like a piglet in pain.
Her hands dived and delved through the foam, grasping and gripping at the frail figure so deeply submerged in the soapy suds. She scooped up her elderly relative, wailing despondently, assuming the worst.

"As you can imagine, I was completely distraught!"

Then suddenly the old lady's eye's sprang open, her mouth curled into a mischievous smile and she let out a cunning cackle. Triumphant tears rained down her cheeks and her small, shrivelled body convulsed as she coughed, mirthfully choking on her laughter. Hysterically happy.

"The old dear found it hilarious. Turns out she's got quite a habit of pretending to die" the woman told me. "She fooled us four more times that fortnight. Once by laying at the bottom of the stairs, all crumpled up as if she'd fallen..."

The anecdote continued with yet more examples which unfortunately I can't recall.

Winged

Hazy recollection, but the general gist went something like this...

Whilst browsing through an old trunk I came upon a collection of old notebooks, journals and jotted scraps all dating from my time at junior school. Randomly leafing the pages unleashed a storm of clouded memories and I was struck by bolts of fond nostalgia. One particular section most enthralled me - a diary of doodles; roughly scrawled illustations of childhood adventures, annotated with titles or brief explanations.

Most seemed mundane to my adult eye - pictograms of everyday situations, with headings such as "The Football Match" or "Pillow fighting" floating over colourfully crayoned representations; a two-dimensional world, peopled by surreal stick-men. Captured in a mad melee of pencils, pens and thick felt-tips.

But one diagram left me dumbfounded. Entitled "Mr. Collingwood takes me flying" it showed a large, winged stickman and a small stick-child sweeping through the sky, boldly etched speed lines trailing in their wake as they burst through crayon clouds.

Suddenly a horde of sunken, slumbering images burst through the doors of things long lost and forgotten. I remembered Mr Collinwood, my RE teacher, with a vivid, uncanny clarity. His brown, fluff-balled suit. His grey-speckled hair. His stale, sweet smell and spider-leg nose hair. His gravely voice and jagged nibbled nails. And the two bumps on his back, subtly protruding from his shoulders, stretching and straining against the fabric of his shirt. I remembered his wings, unleashed, in full span and full glory. And with the utmost certainty, yes, I remembered the day he took me flying.