Tricky things, dreams

Trip Start Jul 19, 2009
Trip End Oct 25, 2010

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Flag of France  ,
Wednesday, May 14, 2008

You might dream of a place in France. And being tucked away in this idyllic little cottage may seem like a cosy set-up, believe me, it has it's drawbacks. Like my spouse suddenly becoming clingy.
He looks positively hurt when I try to slip out of the door unnoticed, protesting he'll be ready in a jiffy to accompany me to where ever I'm going. Now in Amsterdam he wouldn't dream of it. In the many years of marriage I can count the times we shopped together on one hand easily. He hardly looks up when I go out the door.
Besides, he will not be ready in a jiffy - he's the world's greatest procrastinator when it comes to leaving the house. Dithering about, always finding something needing urgent attention, he just wont get a move on. I suspect it's his way of resisting my impatience. I just wanna get up and go. To be fair, at least with Peter you're sure to have the car keys, money, umbrella and dog leash. And dog. Wouldn't be the first time I had the dog running after the car.
But, you know, you need some space sometimes, room for adventure.
I might have to slip some sleeping pills into his lunch.
However, we opted for the countryside round St. Rabier and got stuck in the woods on a very muddy path. 'OK,' said Peter, I've got to put my foot down now. We're going back.' Without much conviction, though, for the last time it happened, I said:"Fine, you go, I want to see what's further on, see you back home.' And off I went, happy as can be, hoping something exciting would happen.
And it did, I could hear a some animal behind me, coming closer, snorting - a wild boar maybe? My heart skipped at beat.
It was Peter, all bothered, but mostly worried sick I'd got lost or raped.
Now he just gives in when we don't agree on what direction to go, feels he has no option.
I know, I must be a real bitch.
So, we continued on through the mud, slippery as soap, ruining a perfectly good pair of sandals. Long batik wrap, trailing through the dirt - I hitched it up and tucked it in my knickers. (please wear something more suitable next time, dear - yeah, yeah.)
Egging the poor man on - just one more turn, last hill, promise, I can see something over there....
All we found was one more tumbling down house, but had to explore. That meant wading though knee high stinging nettles - and if it's true what they say about being stung, I shall never have to worry about arthritis in my ankles and knees.
Inside the derelict building was a bin liner holding some empty cake boxes, wine bottles and half a carton of orange juice.  Facing the window, and what a fantastic view, two garden chairs, and touchingly, a collapsible cot.
Now try and picture a young couple and their baby sitting there amongst the rubble. Eating the gateau, drinking the wine - juice for the child. Dreaming of how they are one day going to live here, raise their children, watch the sunset over the meadows.
Ah, other peoples dreams - make you feel kind of wistful and soppy.
I had a dream last night - I will certainly not commit it to writing, just a mention here so I wont forget. But I marvel at how devious the mind  is, to make the most unlikely character star in what could have been the best of dreams. 
Tricky things, dreams. 
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