Last night's slumber was dreadful and whilst it is a terrible bore to recount one's dreams, I cannot help but share for my own sanity. The subconscious mind may make sense of one's Life, darlings, but the conscious mind needs an opportunity to make sense of one's Dreams too - a potentially endless cycle, of course, but what else is there?
I was on a sinking ship - a glorious beast, filled with party-goers, all of whom were having the most tremendous time and seemed utterly ignorant of the seawater washing around their legs. I, on the other hand, was horribly aware the ship was sinking. Rushing between decks, aft and fore, I searched for my darling Claude, from whom I'd become separated, and yet caught no more than glimpses, a momentary touch of fingertips, before he was repeatedly consumed by the tiddly masses who continued to laugh and party as though on dry land.
It wasn't dissimilar to the von Schrotim boys' disastrous bash in '96 when some bright spark connected a fire-engine hose to the delightful marble fountain in the hall and cranked open the pump - an ill-thought-out jape which cost von Schrotim senior two Picassos, a Collier and the ongoing services of a Harley Street shrink for his aged mother-in-law who had been sleeping in the room directly above.
But what does it all mean, dears?
I called my dear friend, Gloria (previously Benjamin 'Beaky' Davieson, winner of the 1980 Four Quarters Yawl Challenge), to seek advice. She said it was sexual, that all dreams are sexual, that we are, in fact, each and every one, unwitting slaves to our wanton and primitive subconscious desires between the hours of midnight and dawn.
Frankly, dears, she hasn't been the same since they completed her transformation and it's the last time I shall seek her advice on any matter.
On a more positive note, my darlings, I hear from the clinic that Dapphers has progressed onto solids and is gobbling up vodka jellies as though the morrow may never come! Hurrah for fortitude of spirit! One cannot keep a Dunkirk veteran down!