I think this might hark back to the time when I was a baby
and my father was bathing me. My mother had to snatch me out of the water
because it was too hot, or so she told me once. I suspect it might have made me
a little suspicious of water, so now I can add aquaphobia to my treasure chest
of neuroses.
* * *
And Bertha Rochester keeps dropping into my mind lately,
insisting on being heard. I imagine somebody asking me who Bertha Rochester is,
and having to explain that she’s a woman with several unconventional
personality traits, not the least of which is pyromania. ‘What’s pyromania?’ I
am further asked. ‘The taking of uncommon delight in setting fire to things,’ I
explain, ‘most notably things which were never meant to be set fire to.’ Once I’ve
got to that stage, my mind is then free to move onto other things.
* * *
Like dreams, for example. I had another of those
uncomfortable ones last night. My car broke down on a lonely road close to a
wooden shack, and so I took refuge in the shack while awaiting assistance. I
stood there looking out of the window at a railway track which ran alongside
the road. A train came by and I saw my work colleagues going home on it. They
were standing in the carriage watching me as they passed by, and waving to me
sympathetically. And then I was alone again.
* * *
I wanted to say something funny in this post but couldn’t
think of anything.
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