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Sorry again that this took such a long time
coming this week ~ Explanation gven on 'Sat'
As usual, I've only had time to give it a
cursory check. Should get to it early in wk. 


Quite wilfully, in punishment to me for going to
bed late the night before, sleep evaded me until
the early hours. Even then she filled the short
time I had, once again with weird and strangely
disturbing dreams.

There was a neglected concrete path running
above numerous tiny neighbourhoods. Some
had houses and gardens where the people I
thought, were happy and seemed busy with their
lives, although I couldn't see their faces. In other
locations there were just nondescript buildings or
car parks, or streets with frighteningly fast
moving traffic. There were always people, some
of whom I knew maybe, but when I stood above
each set of wobbly steps that would have led me
down to join them; I knew without question that if
I had ever belonged there, I didn't any more. I
also knew with certainty that whatever awaited
me at the end of the road, there would be no
turning back.

When I woke up and be recounted the dream (to
myself), I concluded that what was strangely
disturbing about it was that I was hardly disturbed
by it at all. How weird does that make me?



Now, have a bit of a problem here and it's a
matter of ethics versus image. Any of you who
have seen the mugshot on twitter, and are now
howling with laughter at the thought that I might
actually be concerned about ruining my image –
it's not that image I'm talking about. I know it's
too late for the looks; it's my credibility I'm
worried about.

On the one hand I could easily make up a load of
nonsense about that the first thing that comes
into my head, or the first conversation I have
within the next half hour or so – scrap that, it
would have to be with myself and that wouldn't
work. Anyway, you get picture. You wouldn't know
the difference of course, but it wouldn't feel right
to me.

The second alternative, the problem with which
you insisted on misunderstanding, would be
relating to this week's set of dreams, which I am
reluctant to do for the reasons already given (as
well as the likely issues of boredom, repetition
and general embarrassment). This one was
altogether creepier, as in it I heard someone
letting themselves into my house, my bedroom
and into my bed. I couldn't properly see the man
and he didn't touch me but I could feel his
presence and was too frozen in fear to scream or
protect myself. Then I woke up. You can see why
I don't really want to talk about that, can't you?

So, what to write? 200/300 words on how to burn
toast without setting off the smoke detector – or,
yet another dumb dream and even more proof
that I'm loopy. What to do, eh… Actually, do you
mind if I get back to you on this one?



Tuesday was another day for overindulgence.
This time two friends were coming down, or to
be more precise up, as they both live in North
London and we were to – yes you've guessed it,
we were going out for lunch. My son was joining
us as an afterthought or so I thought, but when
I mentioned the fact to my friends, it seemed
they'd assumed he was coming with from the
start. The occasion was in lieu of his birthday
(they insisted) which they felt he hadn't
celebrated enough (his actual birthday being on
the same day as the belated birthday party of
one of them, very recently). Normally he would
have been riding shot gun (I assume that's an
American expression I've just used, possibly
inappropriately) with another volunteer collecting
and delivering donated furniture and household
goodies. I can't recall how or why he became
available, but all was well anyway.

Later, having spent lots of money in my favourite
butcher’s shop we retired to my house for coffee
and… whatever sweet thing I could find. I made a
feeble pretence at looking for anything fattening,
foolishly trying to persuade people who really
know me better that I had suddenly become
strong willed. Of course, anyone who knows me is
fully aware that anything beginning with choc,
whatever the quantity has no chance of survival in
my home. Of course there was nothing to find.

I would love to tell you that this was a cunning
plan, but it was a perfect way to show who
your true friends are.… they're the ones who see
you floundering wildly and say, “not for me thanks,
I'm dieting”– before rolling about the floor in



It was bliss waking up on Wednesday morning,
with a mind free from nightmarish memories and
naught but the everyday physical malfunctions to
bring me gently down to earth.

Destined to continue this happy mood, the first
thing I saw on entering my kitchen was the vase
containing flowers given to me by a friend the day
before. They were daisy like geraniums (I think),
of an almost red hue, still gently embraced by the
elegant black support that they came with. I
perched looking at these wonders of nature for
many minutes without noticing the large lettering
flowing down towards the water… 'Flower racket'.
I wonder who designed it and whom it was aimed

If you have not already seen one of these 
structures, I must point out that it was very well
named and in all probability mothers who buy
flowers supported by said 'flower racket' will
almost certainly either:

a.    Make their only child very happy

b.    Cause squabbling between children over
whose turn it is to play with it

c.    Provide a talking point when conversation
between adults is strained, boring, or is
totally dried up.

In my now expert opinion, flowers packaged in
this seemingly innovative way (I don't get out
much), are ideal to take to the sick. I don't want
to sound insensitive, but only those confined to a
bed would be in the right position to read the
message – text, not a text is it, a name really…
And they're also the best structure I've seen for
stopping long legged flowers from going wobbly in
their containers.

It was a happy day.


As I sat in my kitchen perched in front of my PC,
I knew that Thursday would be the day. I'd been
putting it off for the previous two weeks and my
avoidance had made life quite difficult, but no more.
This morning I'd opened the refrigerator and,
discounting the milk and the contents of salad/
vegetable draws that I didn't dare even look inside,
the cupboards were bare. (Okay so a fridge isn't a
cupboard, but you can allow me a little poetic
licence can't you?).
I had taken the first step, so to speak, by making
the decision to do a shop on the internet. That had
to be the hardest part; all that was left to do
was to decide which supermarket was to get the
job – and how difficult could that be for me, a
veteran of the game? I used to have groceries
delivered on a weekly or fortnightly basis up until
maybe a year ago, from a variety of stores. Well,
one of four or five, I'm not sure which... It was
between three – one I only used if they had very
special offers on, another just at Christmas or when
I was having people over for a meal, but just
Christmas really since I got rid of my dining table
or four years ago, not liking to have to
So, whether to go with the most tried and tested
or… Unfortunately before I could make the decision
my mobile rang, and by the time I'd managed to
recall the number in order to phone
them back on the home phone (that I have less
problem with using), all thoughts of food deliveries
had left my mind.



Friday's my son seems to have decided, is the
day for undertaking all the heavy, manly jobs
that need to be done in my garden before the
winter which, prior to MS sneakily creeping up
and grabbing me, I undertook myself. Don't get
me wrong, I'm hardly yearning to get back out
there with my spade and wellies, although I did
get a very cute pair of pink ones under the tree
from Santa last Christmas (actually, I know they
were from Anthony – as he insisted on telling me).
No, I am genuinely pleased and grateful to have
someone helping me out. It's not that I'm too fussy
either, or keep giving instructions or complain when
shrubs have been cut back to their very bones. I'm
just… Grateful.

I'll be honest, I've been a bit reckless in my life as
far as gardening goes. I've tiptoed around the high
surrounding wall just one brick deep, carried huge
concrete slabs which I proceeded to lay, climbed a
ladder to remove ivy from the face of the house,
leaning and stretching out with both hands and
forgetting that I was two flights up... And yet – when
I saw my son on that same ladder, sawing 4 feet off
the top of my dwarf pear tree, my stomach turned.

In the end, no longer able to internalise my maternal
feelings, I yelled at him through the patio door to be
careful and went back onto the computer where it was
easier to get lost in much safer worlds.



I suppose this is where I'm expected to give my
excuses for the delay in finishing this by one whole
day, is it?

Hmm, I didn't realise you'd be so hard to please and
I started this fiasco. Well, no excuses but I can give
you reasons, two possibly even three of them. One, I
was asked to go to a cake selling event at a community
hall at the other side of town, within a stone's throw of the
home where my mother now lives. The fact that the
proceeds from the sale of cakes were going to the Macmillan’s
appeal, combined with the appeal the cakes themselves, I
could hardly refuse. As I mentioned, to visit my mother from
the centre was very easy, in fact I managed to walk it on my
own, which is a first for quite a few months. (That was reason
number two by the way).

By the time I had got a taxi home half the day had past I
hadn't even started writing this.. By mid-evening I was too
tired and brain-dead to do any more thinking. That looks
like reason number three.

Now, I am I off the hook?

Thank you for visiting theimpossibledream.
For more nonsense, please find links to previous wks
ramblings at the top of the page, under the logo
(possibly on the left, but it could be my left and not

Please come back soon - it gets very spooky here when
it's empty.

Michele Burnett x

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