5.2.09 | 2 Dreams
"There's no-one makes steak pie as good as your Mum"
And he smiled broadly and with pride.
My mum is an indifferent cook with most things. Took me years to cultivate her to the many culiniary delights of herbs, and even now she is practically a fascist in the kitchen with things like the poor garlic, exterminating it ruthlessly from any recipes that might benefit from a dash of its flavour.
It was a dream, but it's exactly the kind of thing my dad says in real life, and as i reflect on his words, the love shines forth from them. There is truth however, in what my dad says, even though he would say it with fanatical loyalty about most of her cooking. You don't stay married for 50 years and more without some kind of fanaticism.
Anyway, she was fine, indeed awesome, with buns and pastries, although she sadly no longer has the inclination to make such things. I do miss her pancakes, too.
And her steak pies are good. Very good!
On the main road that runs through Harle Syke. I walked. My peace was disturbed by the blast of two fighter jets flying overhead. Something urgent about them made me keep my eyes to the sky.
Then the rather large passenger jet flew over. It had a broken back and squeezed fuselage, like a giant hand had been gripping it tightly. It was obviously in trouble. Like a great bird in pain trying to get back to roost before nightfall.
The plane vanished above the rooftops, fate unknown, and swiftly followed by one of those twin bladed military choppers flying at incredible speed.
As i watched the chinook, i started to become aware of a scream like a howling wind, and turning once more in the direction from where all the other aircraft had come i was shocked to see another large passenger jet flying less that a hundred feet above the rooftops.
"Christ, that's low!"
And then i am silent. My jaw dropping. The plane has no wings- they've been torn off! It's dying. I don't even register the possibility of people inside, it's just a great beast falling to death.
One second later, it has crashed in a scream of tortured metal against stone and glass into a row of houses on the main road. Fiery red shrapnel hurtles in all directions. It's loud and hot and terrifying. I dive behind a wall and pray.
And then i wake up. A look of horror on my face- Bastard dreams, i wish they'd eff off for a bit. It's like bloody kids hanging around on the corner, waiting until you turn your back, before throwing god-knows-what at you. I once had an egg chucked at me from a speeding car one late night after carousing round the local bars. Nowadays, they probably throw grenades or rotting foetuses. maan, they really upped the ante!
Discerning readers of this blog will automatically make (probably) astute guesses as to what these dreams mean. If indeed, they mean anything at all. For those of a less Sherlock inclination or just a bit lazy, i will relate a brief conversation i had with Da Pumpkin about the second one.
"What do you think it signifies, Plebby?"
"The 2 planes are metaphors for the worries i feel about my mum and dad and their impending deaths."
Do you ever ask a question, and then quickly wish you hadn't?"
"All the time, my Shining Sun of Gourdness. All the time."