What follows is a bit of a dream and then an actual one.
'Will work for food'
So a week ago I slept in, was late getting to the supermarket and ended up in the crowded aisles being bumped and barged by sweet, but determined, little old ladies and their trolleys. The french have the greatest name for supermarket trolleys - chariots! (Pronounced without the 'ts'). I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.
After a broken night due to howling wind, outside, and rain lashing on the windows I leaped up at 07:20, showered and charged off to the supermarket for opening time at 08:00. It was deserted!!!!
So the magic dust is over and done with, presents delivered and overindulgence fully partaken of, so what do we do now? Go back to normal? Or perhaps think about making some small changes in our lives. In writing this I'm not trying to preach any religion or moralise unnecessarily, but more to help us all feel better about the one life we have. Just two actions are necessary,
1. Save for next Christmas beginning now.
2. Be nicer to people.
These two points are ACTIONS not passive statements. You don't have to be grand, as I am often known to say you eat the elephant in the room one mouthful at a time. For example,
Saving - put money away each week £1 will more than pay for the majority of the food for next year
buy your Xmas cards now - 40p for ten today that were £2 a week ago
wrapping paper is cheaper too
Be nice - this can be achieved in simple acts such as if you drive give way to people 3 times in one day
open doors for men or women
Really that's just me hoping that people want to feel better in this hectic materialistic world.
I had the strangest dream last night. This is not a story!!!! In fact if it were a piece of art it would rank among a piece of Salvador Dali type work. I have thought about the dream on several occasions throughout this morning and it makes no sense. Here goes.
First of all you have to fill your mind with the capacity for curiosity as it is this human behavioural trait that created the starting point. I could see a number of copper pipes feeding into some kind of junction rather like the mess of pipes you find at the back of central heating units. On the junction of these pipes were two red (I dream in colour) 'control' units. This is where things start going awry. These two round units were explosive with a timer lasting 24 hours. They were detachable and operated by flipping a circular disc situated on the top of the unit then turning the disc through 90 degrees.
I remember staring at the unit for several minutes with curiosity building. Eventually I pulled off one of the units, then as one probably would, put it back and went away. That was not the end. I went back, left the unit on its mounting but flipped the disc and twisted arming the device. I knew that I had 24 hours to get rid of it!
At this point I dimly remember thinking that I was not in my own apartment and that may have been the reason that I allowed my curiosity to rule.
Then it was the following day and I knew I only had a few hours to get rid of the armed device. It is necessary to say that no other person was in the house. My mind was churning round different ways of getting rid of the bomb. I could bury it or put it in water. They were the only two solutions that I can remember. Time was getting short.
Enter someone else. I have no idea who the figure represented but he came on a powerful motorbike and both were black. He never spoke. I'm not even sure it was a man. I grabbed the explosive unit and got on the pillion seat and off we went. I have no idea where we were going but we ended up riding on the moors. Time was running out. The route we were driving on was exceedingly tortuous but my driver took us on with confidence once I'd become accustomed to which way to lean when cornering.
Then things started becoming rather sketchy. I buried the bomb under the moorland turf and it exploded. Then I threw it in a water filled gulley and it exploded.
That was it - I don't remember anything else. I'm sure that the psychoanalysts will be rubbing their hands with glee at the psychological convolutions above - or not.
In a sense writing stories is rather like dreaming in a more organised way but closer to dreams are poems. Poetry allows writers to stretch their imagination and in any way that suits the moment. Reading the lyrics of Leonard Cohen or the writings of Lewis Carroll is an indication of how great it is to bend normal perspectives on life. So if you write or are thinking of writing just do it there are no right or wrong ways only your way. The technical stuff you will have to take care of and like many skills will improve with practice, as will style development but the core of the work is from you.