She woke me at 6.30 am today. She and her husband, not unsurprisingly known as Mr Woog, were about to put one of their horses - or maybe they have only one horse, I'm not sure - on a horse float, as my stepson and I came down the few steps of my Great-Aunty-Annie-Jim-Wright's old slab hut.
I observed them out at the front, and recognised Mrs Woog from her Twitter avatar.
'Hello,' I said. 'I recognise you from your Twitter avatar.' (Have I already given that bit away?) 'How's your son - the one you caught peeing on the gardenia bush in the middle of the night?'
None of her children were in sight.
For a woman who's been accosted by a stranger in such an odd manner, she looked remarkably good-natured and composed. Perhaps this sort of thing happens to her all the time. Mr Woog stood there with a resigned look on his face - the look of a celebrity spouse like Mr Tim... Gillard... I expect. You know who I mean.
We chatted in a friendly and quite animated way for a little while, and then came that little silence where we've covered all the topics of an introductory nature that we need to while someone is about to load a horse on to a trailer. So I said, with a spectacular burst of inspiration, 'You better put the horse on the trailer.' They seemed to think it was a good idea and there the matter ended, smiles all round. A gracious couple, Mrs and Mr Woog.
Let me explain something at this point, before Mrs Woog and my faithful blog followers think I've finally flipped - something most of them must have had some suspicions about for a while.
I was of course dreaming, just on the edge of consciousness. Mrs Woog writes a smashing blog, and her son featured in a recent highly amusing one concerning a domestic mystery. I'll give you the reference to this, but only at the end, or you'll forget to come back here. I'm not stupid.
For some reason, the Woog adults were visiting the centre of all my childhood stories, Calliope. This will come as a surprise to them, because I'll bet pounds to peanuts they don't have a clue where Calliope is. That's OK, because I haven't the faintest where in Sydney they live either, which may come as some relief to them. I also have no idea of the Freudian significance of the horse they were about to put in the trailer. You'll have to ask them. Perhaps Mr Woog can enlighten us on that.
If Great Aunty Annie's slab hut has been restored to the state it was in my dream, then it's come up a treat. She (and I'm talking to you now, Mrs Woog) is the grandmother of Bimbo, who features in many of my childhood stories you won't have seen, such as this one.
Damn! I realise now I should have done a story on her old slab house, and on the day Bimbo disappeared and what Great Aunty Annie did, but I might get round to that. Back to the point.
The real point is that my Twitter life seems to have invaded my reality in a somewhat worrying way, inasmuch as dreams reflect a person's reality. I'm pretty certain Mrs Woog is going to be slightly surprised to find herself in a stranger's dreams, though I don't discount totally the possibility that she gets told this all the time. She may derive some comfort from the fact that Mr Woog is with her in this one. And their horse. And no kids. It reflects on her writing style, perhaps too well, that she has ventured into my life in this strange manner.
Take this as a compliment, Mrs W.
Oh, and should you ever, Inception-like, find yourself and Mr Woog in a strange dream, either severally or alone, and you're outside a slab house in Central Queensland being accosted by a stranger who's quite a pleasant chap really, now you'll know where you are and who he is. But then again, this gives you the opportunity to avoid the place completely if you now feel there's a mad stalker on the loose.
Hey but look, it's your fault. You're the one who writes those stories and tells me about them on Twitter!
The only fear for me is that in forthcoming dreams I may find myself in some of the other blogs I read. Thinking of the content of those, I really am afraid. I could be trapped in Australian politics, e.g., which, none can disagree, would be a fate far worse than death.
You do need this reference! Now I'll let you have it.
There's a nice picture of these dream people here. Turns out they're an extraordinarily good-looking family. I did not see this photo until just now, after I wrote about my dream.
Thanks Denis. It was lovely seeing you again. The horse did well at the races and we won a shiny gold coin. Mr Woog sends his regards and asked again where you got your hat from.ReplyDelete
Glad the horse did well! They used to have Picnic Races at Calliope on Boxing Day every year, so we have a date for the dream as well. (Not sure what year though....)ReplyDelete
Sovereigns are hard to come by these days, so I think you may find the gold coin is actually chocolate wrapped in gold foil. Enjoy it!
I'm not sure which hat Mr Woog means. He's not dreaming, is he? :)