Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

night terrors visiting ; the kirby man cometh

A terrible time last night; the usual tumble-run of bad dreams -- horrible things happen to me/other people, flowers full of maggoty grubs having baby grubs, earthquake rumbles and popping explosions getting closer, closer ...

I woke up, threw off the duvet and something small landed on my leg. I knocked it aside (possibly the cricket that's been trapped in the room for a few days, possibly a liminal hallucination) and began the usual insomnia dance of getting up, shuffling around, lying down somewhere else, finding a kitten, fretting about the kitten, lying down again, fretting about being tired, being too tired to sleep, getting up again, shuffling around ...

At some point I get back to sleep, to vivid dreams about a place that's similar to where we live, but a little more exciting, all stalls and street parties and cutting along corridoors that accidentally turn out to be private bedrooms (oops). While Tim's nipping to the toilet, I shimmy up a spiral staircase to a roof terrace and look down on a lovely place full of fun, friends, tasty food, Tim waiting. As I come back down again, the staircase dwindles to a ladder, then a single-stick ladder I have to reach around -- it's rotted, almost to nothing and I'm on the ground ...

Wake up and hear my kitten miaou; she's on the windowsill which is oddly cluttered with succulent plants, I pick her up and she seems small as she was when she was a kitten. "Look," I say to Tim, "She's tiny again, or else I'm dreaming," and he falls back to sleep. Downstairs I hear the front door open, then the distinct sound of someone sneaking up the stairs. I force myself out of bed, so tired, so clumsy I can barely move and whoever it is whisks away so fast I can almost see motion lines in the air. I force my stupid limbs onto the stairs and stiff-legged stumble down them, at the bottom is a terrified refugee woman clutching a Betterware catalogue like a bible and a tiny skinny girl, and I try to tell them to get out but the only sound that comes out of my mouth is vast, incoherent roaring! No matter how hard I try to talk I can't, it's hurting my throat and I ...

Wake up properly this time. I think. Across the ceiling I see scuttling a huge and spindly centipede that looks like it's made of grey wool. It clearly isn't real, but it takes five blinks to put it away, back into the dreams where it belongs ...

That time, consciousness stuck, but I was pretty subdued all today. When I got home, timscience had the Kirby Salesman down on his Afghan rug, the vacuum cleaner was in shiny bits on the floor, and they were having a discussion about suction, attachments and appropriate bags. I made a few off-colour remarks about book-ends and left them to it; it looked like they were both having fun.

Before he left he asked about my tin of Dorset knobs.
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