The Voice

Dreams are funny things. Last night I managed to fit in two of them, between bouts of being woken by a small child who was either kicking me in the head or pulling the covers off me.

At first I dreamt I was in a place similar to where I actually live, except the sky was made of mist and there was a huge cinema at the end of the street. It had a big eyeball on top and I could see a picture of Grace Kelly. The film showing was Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Rear Window’ but in place of Hitch’s name I could see David Bailey. Right.

Then I was in the kitchen at my mum’s house. From the dining room came my dad. In the dream I knew he was dead but being a polite English type I didn’t bring this up. I can remember looking at him closely, aware of the texture of his skin. I remember hearing his voice (which is one of the things I miss the most). Sadly I don’t remember a word of what he said. Then, after what felt like five minutes, he went back into the dining room and I knew he had gone forever.

When I woke up I thanked my subconscious for this quite amazing and precious gift.


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