I can remember my Dad constantly falling asleep in front of the TV, regardless of how interesting the program was or how many days he’d been lobbying the household with “Don’t forget we’re watching such and such on Wednesday night.” This habit has hit me this year, and has been worse in the last couple of weeks.
Tonight I was determined to stay awake. I can remember Mrs Cricket saying “I’m going to bed now,” and closing the door behind her. I decided to get some fuel with a bowl of dessert, but was thwarted just as the mouth started to tingle when the soy-based ice cream facsimile (not as bad as it sounds) turned out to be rock hard straight out of the freezer. I left it on the bench to soften and returned to couch.
Some time later I woke up with an episode of “World’s Craziest Swamp Gator Cooks,” blaring out of the TV. The surreal (but quite informative) nature of this show didn’t help as I tried to unravel the residual confusion from the dream I had been having during my brief absence. In the dream I was batting, it seemed like for a very long time, but had been unable to hit the ball. My batting partner was defending and scoring, but I was unable to make any impression on the ball at all. I was hot, exhausted and not out on nought, the bowlers unable to hit the target when ever I was on strike – kind of like those baddies in James Bond films who are able to throw a shower of machine gun fire at 007 but never hit him.
Was I the James Bond of the lower grades?
Some guy on the telly with more chutzpah than teeth was getting excited about something when I remembered the ice cream. I jumped up too quickly, feeling all woozy for a moment before finding the ice cream on the bench looking like – melted white ice cream. I swilled it around in the container a few times, the gloopy white lump in the middle looking like the creature from the white lagoon. I washed it down the sink and wandered to the computer.
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This work of fiction © Dave Cornford