The dreams are coming almost nightly now, dreams of being in
a strange place and wanting to go somewhere or do something but being unable to
work out how to go about it. Feelings of confusion, frustration and mild panic
soon ensue and continue until I wake up.
This morning I woke up wondering whether they are a sign of
the early stages of dementia, but I don’t suppose they are. I expect it’s just
a reaction to the isolation, the increasing difficulty I have relating to the
world and its expectations, the almost certain onset of angina, and this pain
of a persistent bloody pandemic.
* * *
But at least I got waved at today by Honourable Sister. At least I think it was Honourable Sister. The car was the right make, the right colour, the right age as far as I remember it, and it was approaching from the right direction. It didn’t stop and offer me a lift, of course, because Volvos rarely do. I suspect it’s a Swedish thing. I think Greta Garbo was probably a Volvo in a previous life.
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