All in the head

Sunday, June 15th, 2008 10:07 am
caddyman: (Default)
A bright-eyed and bushy tailed Furtle was up just after 8.30 this morning: a time that on a work day she would kill to be in bed for.

I was still tired so decided to doze for a little longer and I am fairly sure that at least half the discussion about getting up and how busy today will be took place in my head. In fact I think I had several not quite awake discussions in my head. I don't recall particularly about what, simply that they took place. I think I finally realised I was dreaming when [livejournal.com profile] jfs appeared in full Goth outfit to lecture me about the pros and cons of growing bananas. Or was that 'going bananas'? I remember that bit because it was the part that woke me up.

Right now I think we are going to get some breakfast and then back to the boxing and binning routine, I guess.

Later, Doods.

All in the head

Sunday, June 15th, 2008 10:07 am
caddyman: (Default)
A bright-eyed and bushy tailed Furtle was up just after 8.30 this morning: a time that on a work day she would kill to be in bed for.

I was still tired so decided to doze for a little longer and I am fairly sure that at least half the discussion about getting up and how busy today will be took place in my head. In fact I think I had several not quite awake discussions in my head. I don't recall particularly about what, simply that they took place. I think I finally realised I was dreaming when [livejournal.com profile] jfs appeared in full Goth outfit to lecture me about the pros and cons of growing bananas. Or was that 'going bananas'? I remember that bit because it was the part that woke me up.

Right now I think we are going to get some breakfast and then back to the boxing and binning routine, I guess.

Later, Doods.

All in the mind

Friday, February 15th, 2008 11:45 am
caddyman: (Vincent)
It’s pretty much faded from memory now, but last night I had one of those dreams that seems less like a dream and more like a memory when you wake up – if you know what I mean.

I hate them. Or more particularly I hate this particular sort: I can just about remember now that it was something to do with me having turned down a job offer that someone had clearly expected me to accept and they were giving me a hard time about it.

I can just about recall a woman pointing at a note of an interview that in the dream I had no recollection of and she was saying “you were the only person to make this point and it’s happened” by way of proof that I should have taken the job and sorted them out. The fact that I did not recall the interview did not make any difference.

It was really odd; I recall going through dozens of papers trying to find out what this job was that I had interviewed for, been offered and rejected. That was really frustrating and when I woke up I had the residual guilt feeling hanging around for a good half hour afterwards.

My subconscious mind can be an absolute bastard sometimes.

In cheerier news, I have just kicked my weight-loss campaign on the knee and scoffed a Cadbury’s Crème Egg. Hurrah!

Back on the fruit for lunch, though.

All in the mind

Friday, February 15th, 2008 11:45 am
caddyman: (Vincent)
It’s pretty much faded from memory now, but last night I had one of those dreams that seems less like a dream and more like a memory when you wake up – if you know what I mean.

I hate them. Or more particularly I hate this particular sort: I can just about remember now that it was something to do with me having turned down a job offer that someone had clearly expected me to accept and they were giving me a hard time about it.

I can just about recall a woman pointing at a note of an interview that in the dream I had no recollection of and she was saying “you were the only person to make this point and it’s happened” by way of proof that I should have taken the job and sorted them out. The fact that I did not recall the interview did not make any difference.

It was really odd; I recall going through dozens of papers trying to find out what this job was that I had interviewed for, been offered and rejected. That was really frustrating and when I woke up I had the residual guilt feeling hanging around for a good half hour afterwards.

My subconscious mind can be an absolute bastard sometimes.

In cheerier news, I have just kicked my weight-loss campaign on the knee and scoffed a Cadbury’s Crème Egg. Hurrah!

Back on the fruit for lunch, though.

Trippy

Monday, July 23rd, 2007 10:46 am
caddyman: (Psychedelic)
As usual, you’re just getting used to the weekend and there it is: gone. It’s taken me a long time to wake up this morning and my typing is frankly tragic; thank God for the spell checker. I could have easily stayed dozing on the tube down to Morden1; when I changed on to the Victoria Line at Euston I stood so that I wouldn’t risk dozing off and ending up in Brixton. That nearly didn’t work, but here I am with a cup of not very strong coffee (locally the supermarkets seem to have stopped stocking large jars of strong instant coffee and I get fed up with paying extra for small jars and I forgot top nip in to Waitrose before leaving Whetstone.), just about awake.

Odd dream last night. Most of the details have faded as usual, but I do recall that it involved a party for person or persons unknown set in one of those four-storey Victorian townhouses you see all over central London, with a fair bit of garden out the back. The entire place seemed to be decorated in rustic bar style and there were rock’n’roll posters everywhere, including adverts for local record shops where you could buy all manner of stuff, some of it actually legal. This was all odd enough, like being stuck inside some 1960s acid movie when it went all Italian Job on me and someone drove a car in through the door from what I knew to be the top of a stair well with very steep stairs in it.

At the time this seemed quite unremarkable. I recall, just before waking up, discussing with a bunch of bemused hippies how we were going to get the car back down the stairs since the driver had gone and none of us could work out how he did it. Someone suggested tipping the car on its side and sliding it down to the next landing…

1The land of Morden, where the shadows lie. It never gets old.

Trippy

Monday, July 23rd, 2007 10:46 am
caddyman: (Psychedelic)
As usual, you’re just getting used to the weekend and there it is: gone. It’s taken me a long time to wake up this morning and my typing is frankly tragic; thank God for the spell checker. I could have easily stayed dozing on the tube down to Morden1; when I changed on to the Victoria Line at Euston I stood so that I wouldn’t risk dozing off and ending up in Brixton. That nearly didn’t work, but here I am with a cup of not very strong coffee (locally the supermarkets seem to have stopped stocking large jars of strong instant coffee and I get fed up with paying extra for small jars and I forgot top nip in to Waitrose before leaving Whetstone.), just about awake.

Odd dream last night. Most of the details have faded as usual, but I do recall that it involved a party for person or persons unknown set in one of those four-storey Victorian townhouses you see all over central London, with a fair bit of garden out the back. The entire place seemed to be decorated in rustic bar style and there were rock’n’roll posters everywhere, including adverts for local record shops where you could buy all manner of stuff, some of it actually legal. This was all odd enough, like being stuck inside some 1960s acid movie when it went all Italian Job on me and someone drove a car in through the door from what I knew to be the top of a stair well with very steep stairs in it.

At the time this seemed quite unremarkable. I recall, just before waking up, discussing with a bunch of bemused hippies how we were going to get the car back down the stairs since the driver had gone and none of us could work out how he did it. Someone suggested tipping the car on its side and sliding it down to the next landing…

1The land of Morden, where the shadows lie. It never gets old.
caddyman: (Psychedelic)
I think that I am allergic to Sunday nights. No matter what I do, it is rare that I sleep properly and Monday mornings are consequently more of a chore than they need to be because I am tired before I even start.

Last night I was hunkered down for sleep by about 1am (sounds late, but I usually turn in around an hour later), but back at the PC faffing around by 1.40 having lain there unable to doze off for 40 minutes. Thereafter I recall looking at the clock at around three and then, after a really rather odd dream, which for once, I can partially remember, I woke up again just a few minutes after 4am with a bit of a headache. So I got up, wandered around in the pre-sunrise glimmer, checked my email and had a smoke. By 4.25 I had managed to scare the bejasus out of [livejournal.com profile] ellefurtle by switching on the bedside lamp to find the paracetamol as it had fallen from the bedside table into the deep gloom below as yet un-illuminated by the dawn. Despite the accusing look I got (followed by further snores), the tablets and a glass of squash did the trick and the headache disappeared, so I was able to snatch another three hours or so sleep before the alarm.

But I really did not want to get up at that point.

The annoying thing, see, is that I deliberately made sure that I was out of bed before 10.30 yesterday morning, that being about the maximum lie in I can safely have on a Sunday commensurate with any sleep at all on Sunday night. I may as well have lolled around until midday for all the good it did.

I wonder if this is all to do with the sudden influx of vitamins into my system. Thursday and Friday both saw me eating salads for my main meal. Saturday was a salad sandwich with a bit of chicken and yesterday was a baked potato with coleslaw and grated cheese. Mind you, I did rather overdo it with the grated cheese, [livejournal.com profile] ellefurtle had a reasonable helping thereof, but I had An unreasonably large helping (sometimes you just have to tell yourself to stop grating, already!). It was very tasty, though.

Now I come to think of it, that amount of cheese may well have contributed to my disturbed sleep, though we finished eating by about 9.30, so it would be a bit of a stretch...

Annoyingly, in the dream stakes I find myself able to remember the beginning and end of the dream, but not the middle bit. I am lucky, I guess, to remember even that much; my (sleeping) nights are usually just dreamless voids which disappear in the blink of an eye. At the beginning, I was in a dark bar or club with some (unidentified) friends when I recognised (of all people) Angel (David Boreanaz) looking somewhat perturbed. This led to a request for help, a rather film-noire episode in a dilapidated hotel in which unidentified friends and I escaped by the skin of our teeth (from what I don’t know). One of us having mislaid his jacket and me having lost my mobile phone. At some point the friends thinned out in n umber until it was suddenly [livejournal.com profile] romney, [livejournal.com profile] colonel_maxim and me trying to get a night bus home from an unidentified part of central London. We missed the bus and ended up taking a [livejournal.com profile] colonel_maxim short cut, which led to me waking up with a headache just about the time the three of us were strung out along a dark country road arguing about whether to go back or to continue. I think my brain rebelled after one non-sequitur too many.

Waking up before finding out what it’s all about. That could be a parable of my life.
caddyman: (Psychedelic)
I think that I am allergic to Sunday nights. No matter what I do, it is rare that I sleep properly and Monday mornings are consequently more of a chore than they need to be because I am tired before I even start.

Last night I was hunkered down for sleep by about 1am (sounds late, but I usually turn in around an hour later), but back at the PC faffing around by 1.40 having lain there unable to doze off for 40 minutes. Thereafter I recall looking at the clock at around three and then, after a really rather odd dream, which for once, I can partially remember, I woke up again just a few minutes after 4am with a bit of a headache. So I got up, wandered around in the pre-sunrise glimmer, checked my email and had a smoke. By 4.25 I had managed to scare the bejasus out of [livejournal.com profile] ellefurtle by switching on the bedside lamp to find the paracetamol as it had fallen from the bedside table into the deep gloom below as yet un-illuminated by the dawn. Despite the accusing look I got (followed by further snores), the tablets and a glass of squash did the trick and the headache disappeared, so I was able to snatch another three hours or so sleep before the alarm.

But I really did not want to get up at that point.

The annoying thing, see, is that I deliberately made sure that I was out of bed before 10.30 yesterday morning, that being about the maximum lie in I can safely have on a Sunday commensurate with any sleep at all on Sunday night. I may as well have lolled around until midday for all the good it did.

I wonder if this is all to do with the sudden influx of vitamins into my system. Thursday and Friday both saw me eating salads for my main meal. Saturday was a salad sandwich with a bit of chicken and yesterday was a baked potato with coleslaw and grated cheese. Mind you, I did rather overdo it with the grated cheese, [livejournal.com profile] ellefurtle had a reasonable helping thereof, but I had An unreasonably large helping (sometimes you just have to tell yourself to stop grating, already!). It was very tasty, though.

Now I come to think of it, that amount of cheese may well have contributed to my disturbed sleep, though we finished eating by about 9.30, so it would be a bit of a stretch...

Annoyingly, in the dream stakes I find myself able to remember the beginning and end of the dream, but not the middle bit. I am lucky, I guess, to remember even that much; my (sleeping) nights are usually just dreamless voids which disappear in the blink of an eye. At the beginning, I was in a dark bar or club with some (unidentified) friends when I recognised (of all people) Angel (David Boreanaz) looking somewhat perturbed. This led to a request for help, a rather film-noire episode in a dilapidated hotel in which unidentified friends and I escaped by the skin of our teeth (from what I don’t know). One of us having mislaid his jacket and me having lost my mobile phone. At some point the friends thinned out in n umber until it was suddenly [livejournal.com profile] romney, [livejournal.com profile] colonel_maxim and me trying to get a night bus home from an unidentified part of central London. We missed the bus and ended up taking a [livejournal.com profile] colonel_maxim short cut, which led to me waking up with a headache just about the time the three of us were strung out along a dark country road arguing about whether to go back or to continue. I think my brain rebelled after one non-sequitur too many.

Waking up before finding out what it’s all about. That could be a parable of my life.

Dream nostalgia

Wednesday, September 21st, 2005 07:58 am
caddyman: (Default)
For the first time in many months, I remember the dream I had last night. This is rather unusual for me.

My subconscious seems to have turned to cheap spy pulp for inspiration: I dreamt that I was at a conference somewhere, and that I bumped into a woman I knew at college back in the late 70s. I have barely thought of her in the intervening quarter century, in that way people just slip out of your consciousness when they are completely absent from your sphere of friends or acquaintances for long enough.

Anyway, in my dream, Inga was suitably aged - the years had served her well, but she was not still the 18 or 22 year-old I knew back then, but still dressed in jeans and tee shirt. Whatever she was up to at the conference in the dream, it was clearly something she was anxious not to be recognised for. My "hello" was met with a moment's recognition followed by feigned incomprehension, and a shadowy other person would then begin running interference whenever I tried to contact her.

Very strange. I wonder what my subconscious is, or has been up to?

I recall my first day at college as a spotty 18 year old, sitting in a lecture theatre as part of the induction process, looking across the sea of faces, and trying to work out who in that crowd was the exotic tall blonde Swede called Inga Rutenberg. I found out some hours later, that she was neither blonde nor Swedish, not particularly tall either. And she was from Coventry.

I last saw her in 1982 with her husband to be, at a mutual friend's wedding. Contact with all long since lost, I find myself wondering what became of the mysterious and exotically named Inga...

Dream nostalgia

Wednesday, September 21st, 2005 07:58 am
caddyman: (Default)
For the first time in many months, I remember the dream I had last night. This is rather unusual for me.

My subconscious seems to have turned to cheap spy pulp for inspiration: I dreamt that I was at a conference somewhere, and that I bumped into a woman I knew at college back in the late 70s. I have barely thought of her in the intervening quarter century, in that way people just slip out of your consciousness when they are completely absent from your sphere of friends or acquaintances for long enough.

Anyway, in my dream, Inga was suitably aged - the years had served her well, but she was not still the 18 or 22 year-old I knew back then, but still dressed in jeans and tee shirt. Whatever she was up to at the conference in the dream, it was clearly something she was anxious not to be recognised for. My "hello" was met with a moment's recognition followed by feigned incomprehension, and a shadowy other person would then begin running interference whenever I tried to contact her.

Very strange. I wonder what my subconscious is, or has been up to?

I recall my first day at college as a spotty 18 year old, sitting in a lecture theatre as part of the induction process, looking across the sea of faces, and trying to work out who in that crowd was the exotic tall blonde Swede called Inga Rutenberg. I found out some hours later, that she was neither blonde nor Swedish, not particularly tall either. And she was from Coventry.

I last saw her in 1982 with her husband to be, at a mutual friend's wedding. Contact with all long since lost, I find myself wondering what became of the mysterious and exotically named Inga...

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