Sunday, 3 December 2006

Precognetic Dream?

When the conversation you’re having is destined to become a blog post, you know you’ve been on-line too long….


Me: Remember Sylvia? Well, she’s teaching drama at our old school now.

Slightly Dippy Relative (SDR): Does she do demonstrations?

Me: I expect so.

SDR: Karma – that’s that Chinese thing where they move slowly.

Me: Huh? No, that’s Tai Chi!

SDR: What’s karma, then?

Me: That’s the philosophy of how you reap what you sow.

SDR: (mumbles)

Me: Anyway, she’s teaching drama, not karma.

SDR: Oh, that’s no good, then.

***

I have just learned that a friend of mine, who is in her eighties, is recovering from a stroke which temporarily rendered her unable to speak. Peggy’s doctor has told her that her heart could give up at any time, but then she’s already been living with that idea for the two decades that I’ve known her. Her speech seemed fully recovered when we were talking over the telephone. The stroke has damaged one arm and one side of her face, she told me. The stress of waiting for the immanent death of her long-time friend and mentor isn’t helping her condition. Some of you may remember me posting a few poems written by West Cheshire Lad, which is one of the pseudonyms used by the gentleman in question. Well, he is currently – so Peggy told me – in very poor shape, being given blood transfusions every three weeks and being kept alive by various tubes and medical aid. Each time his health takes a turn for the worse, so does hers.


***


Some excellent news! My niece has secured places at two universities for next September. One is offering a BSc in Forensic Science, the other offers a combined Honours degree in Medical Biology and Forensics. She is still to hear from three other universities also. I am so pleased for her! She has had her heart set on taking Forensics for so long now.

Oh, and my nephew’s voice has broken. For a moment I wondered who this strange gruff, croaky, squeaky voice over the phone belonged to…!

My mother had an unsettling experience in the early hours of Saturday. She heard my father walk up stairs as he used to when returning from work in the early hours. She could smell the diesel from the lorries on his clothes, and the sweat and cigarette smoke. She half-opened one eye and could see him standing at the foot of her bed. He said, “Shove up,” as he used to when ready to climb between the sheets. She sat up and flicked on her bedside lamp, and could see nothing. The room was empty and all was as it should be. But she was very shaken as the dream had seemed so real. In fact she couldn’t settle until she visited my father in the nursing home later that day.

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