Oiling limericks and dreams with combustible pink socks

On the up side, Bessy never tells a dreamer not to dream. On the down, she always stops a dreamer from dreaming by waking them with a sharp comment or brief limerick such as one from Jerry Markison's collection. Not that judicious comments shouldn't rouse one from pleasant slumber - it's just that it shouldn't be in the middle of a dream about wonderful places and lovely people, which is what I was dreaming this morning.

Being a Bank Holiday here on the South Coast (and presumably in other parts of the UK) Margaret had decided to hack some trees down and recast the garden as a scene from a morbid play neither of us had ever heard of nor cared to go and see, which made it doubly interesting. Somehow there was to be a confusion of ideas in the centre that would self-combust so as to end with a bang. Not sure where the ideas were coming from, but there were explosions going off all day at inopportune times. Fantastic.

Felix has never sat out a Bank Holiday in all the days they and he have been around, which is remarkable considering his penchant for absconding in an unforeseen way. That's what accounted for his telling me this morning that he'd just watched a failing cousin (who could not be related on account of his not being present at his own conception) playing a violin worse than the squeak of an un-oiled hinge on a green kitchen door. It would seem that all this had to do with code for some form of assault on our way of life, so Felix had done a brave thing and unscrewed the door. I couldn't quite see how this prevented the awful music, but Felix has a wonderful way of working.

Being a Bank Holiday, I haven't seen George and Cookie today. George did mention some sort of contest he was partaking in that involved cardboard and water and lots of pink socks. After I had mentioned carting a tonne of rubbish to the tip as a priority this weekend, Cookie said on Friday it was a disgrace that anyone considered a heavy-handed masseur as anything but worthy of the highest esteem. I didn't have a clue what she was talking about, but the garage is now quite empty.

Which, I suppose, was due in part to cutting a dream short and tackling reality, and due in another part to feeling heroic as explosions went off around me.