Tag Archives: dreams

More Poor Time Management

I’ve just checked my count. This is the 132nd day of the year and this is the 132nd post. A few years ago, I swear I would have had no trouble keeping up. The problem lies in my relationship with time.

Julia is out reducing some poor, helpless piece of wood to shavings, so I thought I’d better do some tidying while she was out. It’s not a significant amount compared to her contribution, but it just means I can feel a little better about myself when she returns.

So I pulled the duvet flat and wished the breakfast pots. It took about ten minutes and I begrudged every minute of it, because I want to be writing.

St Joseph and the Angel c 1920 by Wilhelmina Geddes.

Once I sat down at the keyboard I checked the Facebook page for the Numismatic Society, read my emails (little had changed since 20 minutes ago) and checked if anything was new for sale on eBay, I realised I’d just wasted more time than doing a bit of washing up, and hadn’t worried about it at all.

Time management, like diet, is a flexible concept in my world. They are also susceptible to the vagaries of memory. I don’t mean to waste time, or eat too much, but I do. It’s not because I want to fritter my life away, or be fat, it’s just that I forget I have time management and health constraints.

I actually used to have nightmares about that when I gave up smoking – after about a year, I’d start dreaming that I’d accepted a cigarette from someone because I’d forgotten I’d given up. I haven’t had one for a while now, but I kept having them for years, and would often wake up frightened that I’d really started and had wasted all the effort of breaking the habit.

I once had a job I hated, and for years after I left it I would wake in the middle of the night thinking I was still there and had to get back to it in the morning.

The brain is a strange place.

Octofoil window – Angel by John Hungerford Pollen 1863 Our Lady of the Assumption, Rhyl, Denbighshire

Becoming the Boring Bloke in the Corner

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Reverse of the Russian Fleet Medallion

I started writing last night. First I finished editing a piece on a small medallion commemorating the visit of the Russian Fleet to France in 1893. Then I sorted the photos and sent it to the man who manages the Numismatic Society Facebook page. I am such an interesting man.

Then I did 400 words on another medallion – this one features the Prince of Wales on one side (later Edward VIII) and the centenary for the railways on the other. Was it really only 1830 when the railways began? Probably not, but it was the first timetabled inter-city service using only steam locomotives. Earlier railways were horse-drawn or featured assistance from winches and cables on the harder sections. I see their point, but saying railways started in 1830 is taking a lot of credit from the earlier pioneers.

I am well on the way to becoming the boring bloke with the unusual interests that sits in the corner at club meetings. In fact, I have probably already become that man. We don’t seem to have one in the club at the moment and they often say that if you don’t see one, it is probably you.

The meatballs were reasonably edible last night, though I forgot to do the pasta, so we had a sort of meatball and Mediterranean vegetable stew. We were probably better off like that, though, as we don’t need all the carbs. Unfortunately there wasn’t as much vegetable sauce as I thought so we don’t really have enough to make another meal from it.. We will finish the lentil soup for lunch today and I will probably make cauliflower cheese for tea. It’s a big cauliflower this week and I need to make a start on it. The remains of the vegetable sauce will do for the foundations of another tomato soup.

Edward VIII. Opinions vary on whether he was a doomed romantic figure or a spoiled playboy with links to the Nazis.

Soup and obscure medallions. This is not the stuff of my youthful dreams. Neither were bad knees, dodgy plumbing (personal and household) or insomnia. My dreams used to feature mysterious oriental beauties (so that, at least came true), sports cars and the South of France. Later they were about walking in the Lake District, eating pie and chips in roadside pubs. See my previous comments on mysterious oriental beauties. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to get out of a low-slung sports car, that I’d have to limit my intake of pie and chips and that walking would become so difficult. Fortunately, I still have my dreams, even if the focus has changed.

Centenary of the railways 1830-1930. Note that it is Foreign Made. Despite our industrial muscle in the 1930s, we still imported cheap foreign tat.

The medallions are all less than an inch across, which keeps the costs down.

Dreams and Easy Writing

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After struggling yesterday I am feeling prolific this morning. The main difference, I think, is quality of sleep, though I may also be spurred into action today by the feeling that I wasted a day yesterday.

I also had a very strange dream last night, relating to buying cheap jeans in India, and attracting the wrath of a local gang boss for not buying his. I do not have a clue what it was about, or why I would want to break the habit of the last 40 years and start wearing jeans again. I have never been to India, have no experience of criminal gangs and, on checking, did not sleep through a programme about India, crime or jeans. It is a mystery.

Clitheroe from the castle

The one from the night before may have a meaning, however. In that one I took part in a cycle race from Mansfield to Nottingham. I was up with the leading group at one time despite the woeful lack of gears and the presence of a wicker shopping basket on my bike.

Next thing I knew, I was lost in the dark and nobody would give me directions to Clitheroe. Those of you who know about such things will doubtless wonder how I got so badly lost that I ended up around 100 miles North-West of where i wanted to be. I don’t know. Students of deep psychological stuff may wonder how my journey veered from being within a few miles of my current home to ending up desperately searching for one of my favourite childhood homes.

Me, I’m wondering why I was a on a bike. I’m not built for either cycling or Lycra. Particularly Lycra.

Now, I suppose, I should grapple with the NHS again, as previously discussed, and see about rebooking that appointment.

Bin raiding squirrel at Clitheroe Castle.

Musings

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Interesting day in the shop. It started with me arriving early to find all the parking had gone, and as I parked to cause maximum possible inconvenience to the people using our spaces one left, which left me with a dilemma. Continue to cause maximum inconvenience, or grab the slot and secure a parking space for the day with no need to move or argue.

I decided to park in the newly available space. As it was, we had a customer later and he blocked the bad mannered parkers in, so the woman in the big black car was still put to some inconvenience when she wanted to move. This is good, as it may make her think twice about parking outside the shop again. However, I know it probably won’t, as most people who park in our spaces think they have some sort of right to do it. Like the one who told me “I pay my taxes . . .”

Until then I didn’t know you could pay a tax that allowed you to park where you want (I am, of course being sarcastic here, as we don’t).

Bamforth comic card

The photo has nothing to do with the subject of the blog but I saw it whilst searching and thought I’d put it in.

We had a couple of questions – one surprisingly clear and one, unsurprisingly, the ramblings of a man who appears to think e can fill in the gaps with our mind-reading skills. He wants to know if he can offer us £50 for a coin. Well, I can’t stop him. What he really means, in his woolly-headed way is is if we will accept £50 for a coin. Confused? Me too. Traditionally questions like this come with a little more information, like which coin. He has obviously got one in mind on a drop down menu. Coins on the menu start at £35. I would be happy to sell him a £35 coin for £50, but I don’t think that’s what he has in mind. Most of the coins on the menu are £85 to £100. I imagine that is what he is thinking of. If we were making so much money we could afford to offer that level of discount I’d have retired years ago.

Harlow Carr Gardens – this may be too ambitious as a retirement project, but you need to have ambition.

At this point my thoughts always turn to winning the lottery and installing bollards that go up and down so we could keep people out of our spaces. Of course, what I always miss in this scenario is that if won enough money to even think about retractable bollards, parking at work would no longer be an issue. Actually, I just checked. You can buy a cheap bollard (retractable or folding) for as little a £60, though I wouldn’t really trust an eBay dealer with my security needs. Around £100 labour to fit, they say, but it’s probably more. It’s always more . . .

There are, of course, more expensive choices.

However, getting back to the main question – if I won a significant sum on the Lottery would I let it change my life. Yes, I certainly would. Now that I’m on the verge of retirement I am getting impatient. I’ve just been looking up garden sheds, greenhouses and raspberry canes. Once I get a flat and easy to maintain garden I am going to take more interest. There are too many steps and slopes in our current one.

It’s strange what a difference a few months makes. When I first realised it was looming I grew afraid of retirement. Now I can’t wait.

Fat Rascal at Harlow Carr. In retirement I am going to do more baking. I may even buy a mixer to do the difficult bits.

Day 171

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We had an interesting day in the shop.

When I arrived a young woman pulled up next to me and said hello. This is unusual. All was explained when she said she was there to do the survey, though I had been expecting her at 11.00 rather than just before 9.00.

It turns out that the oner had mis-read the letter. There was an energy efficiency survey at 9.00 and an agents survey at 11.00. Both featured young women who measured us up using laser measures. I just looked them up, they are only about £20. If I ever want to measure a shop I now know how to do it. I expect you get what you pay for.

Strangely, none of them wanted to know about the damaged front door (the owner still hasn’t fixed up the front door properly despite it being several years since the burglary) or the damp coming from next door. Like all property owners he wants maximum rent and minimum effort. And like all letting agents the second agent wants most commission for least work.

It feels like I’m a massive sea creature, attacked by sharks on one side and having my life’s blood sucked by parasites on the other. And I’m not even the owner!

In the afternoon we had an interesting man with a small accumulation of coins. He walked out with £700 and a smile on his face. He has just sold his house and bought a river cruiser with the full radio set-up for going to sea. He is planning on living on the boat with his wife (with outgoings considerably cheaper than current rates and stuff) and cruising the rivers when he feels like a holiday. Seems like a good plan. I’ve been looking at boats tonight. Another dream . . .

. . . chugging along a river with wildlife and fishing and riverside pubs. I could mount an exercise bike on it and pretend I was pedalling along the river.

Dabchick, or Little Grebe

Dreams, Regrets and Memories

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It’s 8.15, it’s Sunday and I have just finished looking through my emails and the WP comments. It’s what passes for social interaction in what I refer to as “my life”. When summarised in a single sentence it isn’t much of a life. No editor has been in touch overnight, no Lottery win has been communicated and I have, as yet, not interacted with another human. (Julia is still in that Sunday morning phase where she is grunting from inside a cocoon of duvet, in case you were wondering. Not human. Not interaction).

I have had inspiration for some haibun prose since waking this morning, and I had a very peculiar dream about something. I can remember it was peculiar, but as time passes, I can’t remember anything other than that. Dreams are like that.

On the subject of teachers, however, I seem to have a set of superpowers I did not know existed. I can remember nearly every teacher who ever taught me, and I can remember something good about nearly every one of them. I won’t bore you with a list, but I was amazed how, once I started, I couldn’t stop remembering them. It would be better if I could remember everything they taught me, but that, unfortunately, is beyond me.

I’d have liked to have been a teacher, but it was not to be. My mother wanted to be a teacher too, but it didn’t happen. Same with my paternal grandmother. It’s a small enough ambition but my grandmother was told she had to work on the farm, my mother was told she had to get a job to help support the family. I was merely told by the careers teacher that people always said teaching when they couldn’t think of anything else and I should find something else.

When spoke to Julia about this she said she’d been told to consider a career as a waitress or hairdresser, because she would no doubt get married and stop work to raise a family. Fifteen years later she completed a part-time post-grad diploma whilst number one son, at the age of two weeks, slept on the seat next to her in the lecture hall.

We used to have a saying when I was in sales – “Nothing happens until somebody sells something.”

You could say the same about life – “Nothing happens until somebody teaches something.”

And with that, I will leave you. It’s 8.46 and I am hungry.

Ha! I just remembered the name of a history teacher that had been eluding me.

Dreams and Confessions

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I woke early this morning. You can probably tell that from the fact I was able to post before going to work. I woke around 4.30 after having a bad dream. I can’t tell you what it was about but it featured being trapped in tunnels and saying more risks having unwelcome Freudian interpretations forced on me.

After a trip to the bathroom went back to sleep until 5.30 when I awoke convinced that the police were about to tow my camper van away because I’d obstructed someone’s driveway by parking it round the corner from the house. This was very vivid and it was a few seconds before I realised that I didn’t have a camper van and didn’t have a corner to park anything round.

The subconscious is a weird and wonderful thing. Mainly, in my case, weird. It’s not many years since I dreamed I was a spinning top on a fairground ride and woke up to find I was in mid-air, having spun myself out of bed. To be fair, I wasn’t in mid-air for long as gravity did its part rapidly and efficiently.

Julia said: “Have you broken anything?”

I assured her I was OK.

“I meant the bedside table. I knew you’d bounce.”

And they say romance is dead…

Then there was the time I woke up screaming because the giant rat was eating my leg, only to find the “jaws” were my own hands grasping my leg.

Anyway, I popped into wakefulness again at 7.01, which is my normal weekday time (I normally allow myself to lie in until 8.00 on Saturday as I don’t have to run Julia to work). It seemed pointless to go back to sleep so I got up, had the last of the Chinese takeaway for breakfast, blogged, made my sandwiches (yes, cheese again), went to the local shop, did some long-term financial planning (or bought a lottery ticket if you prefer the unvarnished version) and turned up at work just in time to get the last parking space. For some reason everyone thinks they can park in front of the shop on Saturday, even though they are nothing to do with us.

We had quite a crowd in at one time and succeeded in getting a customer to join the Numismatic Society. We had nine customers and three staff in at one time. In the old shop you were uncomfortably full if you had three customers and if you had four you had to synchronise your breathing.

By four I was glad to escape and go shopping with Julia. I say “go shopping” but we have developed a routine that features us having a toasted teacake and a mug of tea before she goes round the shop while I sit and read the paper. It suits me because I’m a lazy male chauvinist pig and it suits her because she hasn’t got someone trailing round behind her complaining about prices.

The rot started a few years ago when I found myself nodding and saying “Yes dear.” when I wasn’t actually listening. I’d always said I wouldn’t do that, but once it started, the rest seemed to follow naturally.

That, I think, is enough for now. To continue risks me getting a flea in my ear if either Julia or my sister read this. Like Bertie Wooster, I have a set of female relatives who can be fearsome when annoyed.

Nearly there!

The pictures show one of the answers to my question from yesterday – where does all the time go?

A Dream with an Unlikely Plot

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I normally find dreams difficult to remember, and find most of them, including my own, to be incomprehensible and dull.

On the other hand, I need a subject to write about before going to work and packing 3,000 sixpences. It’s going to be a tedious morning and I may not feel like posting after a morning sorting obsolete small change.

Last night, having already slept for five hours in the afternoon/evening, I went to bed and slept deeply again. This wasn’t unexpected as I still have the last stages of a cold, have spent two nights from the last four sitting up until 4 am wrestling poetry submissions into shape, and got up earlier than was ideal yesterday.

The dream started with me in the middle of the action, eavesdropping on Nigel Farage on the eve of his wedding in a Scottish Castle, as he outlined his cunning plan to usurp the British Royal Family using the pedigree of his new wife (who was, it seems, connected to royalty in the distant past).

As plots go, it has a few holes, as I’m not sure what Farage’s current marital status is, how succession to the royal family works and, more importantly, how you go about usurping something.

I’m guessing, with his political history, that he’d take whatever steps were needed to marry, that the lady must have been of Stuart stock, and that you don’t just go down to Buckingham Palace, knock on the door and tell the House of Windsor to sling their hooks. There would, I assume be a protocol to usurpation, which Farage, being privately educated, and having worked in the City, would know about. Otherwise there would be a definite danger that Prince Harry, egged on by his grandfather, would take a horsewhip to the oily oik and cut his dreams of grandeur down to size.

Jacobites have never done well in their attempts to retrieve the throne.

The second part of this unlikely dream centred round my attempts to buy a compass late at night in the Scottish Highlands, pinning most of my hopes on finding a late night TESCO. I’m fairly sure that late night superstores are thin on the ground in the Highlands.

I needed the compass, and a torch, in order to navigate a microlight through the night to London to alert the Royal Family to the danger they were in.

Yes, I realise there are holes in this plot too, including the danger, when knocking on the door of Buckingham Palace with my warning, of Prince Harry etc…

I’m also pretty sure, as I write, that this dream is loosely based on a John Buchan novel.

Why, you may ask, would you need a compass when a mobile phone holds enough technology to land me on the moon, not just London? That’s similar to a plot point in Iron Sky, though I would like to point out I’ve never actually seen it, just read about it.

Anyway, even if I had a compass, and access to a microlight, why would they send a fat man who is scared of heights on an important mission like that.

Come to think of it, why not just phone and tell people.

It’s a good thing I woke up, as there was obviously going to be a point where the whole thing just became very silly.

Microlight over Sandsend

Two Hours

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I returned home after dropping Julia off at work and noted the time – 6.09. As I type this line it is 8.02 and I have just finished part of my catching up with WP. I have read and replied to all the people who posted comments over the last few days and made reciprocal visits to the first few on the list. I’m hoping to visit more by the end of the day but I thought I’d post now as “Two Hours” seemed a reasonable title, I’m also finding that if I leave it until the end of the day I find more work to do, or fall asleep in front of the TV, and end up not posting.

It’s 8.06 now. Am I really only writing a line a minute?

Budgerigar Society badge

The photograph is a Budgerigar Society badge. It dates from 1930 – 1950s. In 1930 they changed from the Budgerigar Club to Budgerigar Society. On the back it has a fitting to go through the buttonhole in the lapel of a man’s jacket. This sort of fitting died out in the 50s as clothing became more casual and pins became the norm. It’s currently on our eBay site with a bid of 99 pence.

When I was 16 I dreamed of working for Spinks. In my 20s I wanted to be rich and successful.

Today I’m happy to have a job that pays me to write about Budgerigar Society badges.

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! as Mr Shelley said.

It’s 8.20 now – where does the day go?

quercuscommunity

Life after the Care Farm