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“Never tell your dreams.  What if the Freudists come to power?”    Stanislaw Lec

It wasn’t a particularly inspiring — or inspired — dream. Just a little more odd than usual. I happen to think that dreams are the product of the brain’s de-fragmenting process, (we’ve all watched our computers defrag…moving the little squares around until everything is nice and tidy, no bits in the wrong place…of course we have). Anyway, I believe that’s what dreams are: our brains tidying up the weirdness in our heads.

I’m thinking maybe there is just a little more weirdness in my head than usual, which is not entirely surprising, given that my life is now back in three (yes, 3) twenty-foot containers. This time it was not neatly packed by professional movers. This time it was packed — if you could describe it as that — by me and assorted helpers in a frenzy of “get-this-place-emptied-out-quick” activity. Said activity occurring in the final moments before my departure and the renovation crew’s arrival.

But I digress. I am now in, or at least near, Ireland, while my house is being totally renovated. More about that later. Right now I want to tell you about this dream, in the hope that someone can help me to make sense of it. It seems that I was visiting Sarah Ferguson, former Duchess of Somewhere. In real life we’ve never met. At least not that can recall. Well, it seems that Sarah had this pet fly, and I was helping her look after it so that no one would swat it. Now what do you suppose that was all about? I can’t make any sense of it at all. I had thought that the massage just before a light dinner, a little bit of wine with dinner, and an early night would be calming. Soothing, even. But here I am, at 3:30 a.m., contemplating Sarah Ferguson’s pet fly. Is that weird? Or is it just me?               MM

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