Dream #138

3:30 am second sleep.

The blue boat.

I'm wandering the countryside looking for work. A kind family put me up for the night in their riverside home.

In the morning, I'm told that there is work to be had down river in the town. It is quite a distance; however, they have an old wooden rowboat, painted blue, which is now flaking badly, and so I set off, rowing down-stream.

The sun is rising, the water calm, and I am enjoying the bucolic scenery.

The town however, is grey and grimy.

Somehow, I push the boat up a slipway and park next to an old brick wall, stowing the oars under the seats.

I search all day without success. There is an air of desolate decay and despondency everywhere I look.

I walk back to where I left the boat, intending to row back upstream and return it to its owner, but this is going to be impossible, for somebody has stolen the oars.

Either their need is great, for the oars were very old and worn, or it is some youngster’s idea of a prank.

Whatever, I now have to tell the boat owner of my predicament, even though I suspect that he might be glad to get rid of the old boat.

I begin walking along a thoroughfare that seems to lead in the general direction from whence I had begun my day.

Before I have travelled very far, I am joined by a smartly dressed businessman, his dark pinstriped suit, white shirt and dark blue tie, reminds me of the city gents in the London of my youth.

He asks many questions, and I think he may be going to help me, but alas, as soon as we near his destination, he leaves me without a by your leave.

I reach an intersection, and know that I should turn right, over a steep hill, but my feet follow their usual inclination, and I cross the road and start down a straight, long, gentle slope.

I am wondering why the traffic is driving on the right hand side of the road, and then I remember I am not in my home country.

Dumped at the side of the road is a kind of cart, like an overgrown shopping trolley.

This makes my progress much quicker, as I am able to rest my feet on the back and hold onto the handle, rattling down the road, almost as fast as the sparse traffic.

At the end of the long and dusty road, stands a large warehouse that looks as if it had been built in the time of Dickens.

The manager is doing something by the warehouse doors, and when he sees me, he asks what I am about. He seems to find my predicament amusing.

I can lend you a Lincoln 75 he says, smiling.

I have never heard of a Lincoln 75, and guess it is some kind of outboard motor.

He interrupts my thoughts by saying "only joking".

I am then invited inside the Warehouse, which is windowless, and poorly lit. A couple of workmen are moving things about and the manager tells one of them to go to a corner and retrieve something.

It turns out to be a sack of dried ravioli.

"You can have this" says the manager with his trademark smile.

I desperately try to think of a response, and the effort, coupled with the ridiculousness of the whole episode, forces me awake.