So I go to this new job, and I am a bit worried about my suit being a bit too tight, but am trying to be positive and avoid tugging away at the jacket and trousers to keep them in place. And it turns out that I am going to be working for David Cameron. But he is not around, so his Head of whatever shows me around. (He is also called David, as is - it turns out - every other man in the office, except for me, which they [the Davids] all find rather amusing.) Everyone seems very very rich and well dressed, and very very unbusy, except to nose around asking me exactly what I am doing there.
And I get shown to a desk which is in my old prep school, except they have lots of new computers all running on systems that I don't know how to work. And after a bit of being nice to the rather frosty woman I am sharing an office with, David Cameron turns up and bursts into our office to meet the new bloke aka me. He seems nice, but incredibly vague about what he needs. He asks me to write a four page promotional brochure on "Anything you want. Just make us look good". I plug away, and show my work to the Head of whatever, but he hardly reads it. He is too excited about some car journey he is going on with David (Cameron). And he invites me to come along, but I am a bit worried that my suit is falling apart, so I go to get changed, but the two doors on the changing rooms don't have locks, so I have to do this balancing thing trying to hold the doors closed while I get changed. And then, I look in the mirror at the new shirt I have on, and it is a faded denim woman's blouse. If I put a tie on, it looks quite normal, so I go for that option.
And then David (Cameron) disappears and everyone says the thing I have written is excellent, but he wants to talk to me about it in person, and he will be back soon anyway. So I kill a bit of time by going to buy a cigar to smoke, but none of the shops have anything other than huge great Cuban cigars when all I want is a little cheroot or something. Eventually I find a shop that sells me a small cigar, but I am now running late for the boss. And I run back to the office, in the process of which I lose my tie so the woman's blouse thing is going on again. But I figure he will be cool about this, since I am noticing that all his male staff are dressed up as school boys anyway.
But then I have been given a massive hedge trimmer and my sister to help me trim the hedges around a cricket pitch where Cameron and his staff are playing a 50 overs game against some other team, all of whom look pretty sharp in their whites. So I get to trimming the hedge, thinking they will want it cut right back so that everyone can see the pitch. But the Head of whatever turns up and freaks that I have opened up the view for anyone to come along and watch us play. My sister gets annoyed with him and tells him we didn't have any decent instructions, a conversation that Cameron gets involved in, and he agrees that we have done the right thing by trimming the hedge right back. (Somewhere around here, there is a passage about having a meal, but I forget the details, and am too stressed to eat anyway because I am the only person there to bowl.)
So I end up opening the bowling, and they show my performance on a massive screen which indicates that my accuracy etc is pretty perfect, and also unplayable. So we - well I - get our opposition out for 49 runs, and I am invited to open the batting, which I decline thinking I should let someone else take over because I still need to get back to the office to finish that report I was writing which no-one has given me any feedback on yet.
And I run back to the office, and think it will be okay to use the changing room now that everyone is at the cricket. So I am changing into my old shirt when both doors burst open and all the Davids are laughing at me in my too tight trousers and sweaty shirt.
All this before I've even woken up to engage in the real Monday, where mrs househusbandnot looks down at my in my exhausted state, and asks "Bad dream babe?"
Apr 16, 2007
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3 comments:
Dear hhn, that's remarkably courageous of you to share that dream with all of us: even the most cursory analysis of the symbolism of ill-fitting clothes, too-big cigars, hedge trimmers and lots of Tories laughing at you reveals a very tormented being.
Added to that the school references, the computer confusion and the lack of interest taken in your work, and I think you need a big hug. Or more and better drugs...
was it really a dream. Ijust thought you had a bad day.
And how many runs did you score?
I wouldn't worry too much hhn. Dreams have bene proven to be the foreteller of things to happen. But either they do or they don't. More likely is it could be a mid-life crisis, or more likely, and my favourite, the start of an unavoidable nervous breakdown that will have you gibbering in to mrs hhn's ample bosom.
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