Hanging…

Lying in bed, I didn’t want to get up and face the news that the Conservatives had won a landslide.  I didn’t want to leave the house, or even go from room to room, with the heavy feeling of disappointment and, on top of that, the blocked feeling in my sinuses.  I didn’t want to be around housemates and friends who would all be likewise glum.  I could hear the steady fall of rain against my windows.

I woke up a bit.  Today was Thursday not Friday – the country hadn’t voted yet.

The rain was real, as was the feeling of a cold coming on, and the feeling of dread.  I dreamt I was door-knocking in the drizzle.  I dreamt I didn’t want to go door-knocking.  I dreamt I was calling the local campaign manager to say I was ill and so sorry I couldn’t make it.  Maybe I even dreamt that I didn’t vote, because the polling station was half a mile away in the rain, and my constituency is a safe Labour seat, so my vote isn’t needed, and the Tories are going to win anyway, so my vote doesn’t matter.

labour rose

I did go door-knocking, and the sun was out.  My group (mostly university students, plus a few older folks) went round the suburb where I used to live with J.  Down one of the long streets, I saw more gardens with rose bushes than I’ve ever noticed in such a small area before.  One old, Irish gentleman with almost-blind eyes showed me the tiny picture of Mary hanging near his door, and crossed himself as he said he hoped we won.  To my surprise, I heard myself say “god bless” as well as goodbye, and by the look on his face he was surprised too, as he wished me the same in return.

 

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dehydration dreams

Woke up at eight this morning, slightly hungover from half a bottle of rioja and some salty, homemade Spanish food.

I’d been dreaming of drinking glass after glass of iced water.  Also that it was raining, which gave me an excuse not to go to the allotment.  (In fact, it’s a beautiful day and I have no such get-out.)