Mrs GOF 11,335
(It may just end up being the full-time score if she ever gets to read this story.)
Moral crusaders are constantly hollering from their pulpits of pontification that each of us lesser mortals living in intimate partnerships should be pulling our socks up because the failure/divorce rate is approaching fifty percent.
I think it’s an absolute miracle that any union survives for more than a few years because the vast range of variation and difference within human psyches and expectations makes the possibility of finding long-term compatibility and happiness with another person fairly remote.
Perhaps I am not alone in suspecting that some marriages only achieve longevity because one dominant partner has stifled the individuality, ambition and dreams of the other.
Maybe other relationships still exist only because each partner in equal proportion has allowed the two-storey house of hope to decay through lack of maintenance into a ramshackle hovel where neither occupant can even be bothered looking for a door to get out.
I’m sorry, I just went all philosophical and cynical there for a moment.
I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t happen again.
This story was to be about something different.
It was supposed to be about dreams.
* * * * * * * * *
I am perfectly content with my belief that dreams are nothing more than the brain doing a little essential housework by filing-away, throwing-out, or trying to make sense of the vast quantities of crap we shove into it each day via our various orifices and portals.
I don’t expect them to have meaning or predictive potential.
Mostly I can’t even be bothered trying to remember them.
Certainly I don’t think anyone else really needs to know about the content of my dreams. If one day I have a real humdinger then you will be the first to find out.
Mrs GOF is different.
Every morning for the past 32 years Mrs GOF has presented me with the latest episode of her Adventures in Slumberland.
In great detail.
Occasionally she attempts to convince me that she had had dreams which fortold the future, but always AFTER she had been overtaken by the event itself….never before.
Mostly I solemnly endure this quirk of her character whilst nodding profusely and inserting a “tsk tsk” here and a “wow” there into the occasional pauses which inevitably must occur in order to draw breath during any half-hour monologue.
Ninety percent of what gets written in The Bucket was originally composed in my head during the Dream Stories morning interlude.
I am only able to
get away with provide this porthole into domesticity today without fear of physical or psychological retribution because Mrs GOF has gone swanning around Papua New Guinea for a month. Out of range of the internet.
I’m safe. It’s not like any other member of my family, or friends of Mrs GOF might read this blog and urgently send a message for her to procure an armful of fighting spears and the machete that chopped poor old Roger the Rooster’s head off so that she can deal with my disrespectful impertinence when she gets back.
It really is miraculous that some partnerships can endure for so long.
It is a miracle that Mrs GOF has tolerated my intolerance of her dawn dream summary for so long.
She has told me 11,335 dream stories during the past 32 years.
And I only ever had ONE dream that I thought was worthy of relating to her.
* * * * * * * * * * *
So there you have it. What more could you possibly need to know.
I do apologise for this woeful piece of storytelling.
It just sort of fizzled out with barely a whimper.
I think I know why.
It’s now been 16 days since I heard a dream story.
My world as I knew it is temporarily incomplete.