Dogs don’t get it about days off. Pavlov had a point about the trigger/response business. In the case of my dog, the sound of the garbage disposal truck down the hill = rise, shine and do the morning walkabout.
Consequence for the dreamer: the ah-ha moment came and went before longer term memory could grab and hold on to it. All I know: the title of the work the dreamer was reading contained a clever pun. Voilà. C’est la vie. Dogs don’t get it about days off.
Spent some quality time with Archy and Mehitabel last night, just before lights out around 9 pm. Tired, I was? A bit. Answering flurries of questions from twenty-three eleven year olds crowding in and shoving because It’s My Turn uses up a lot of energy. I say school holidays were invented by teachers and they knew what they were doing.
At any rate, I hold no expectation of discovering the next Goncourt among the twenty-three in the writing workshops but a few faces lit up when they “got it” about the meaning of the word “incident” (as in: if nothing happens, there’s no story). A few also “got it” about the need for a solution. They feature a lot of magical wands or secret formulas to rid the world of nasties. One brave little kid intends to end her story by giving the World Exterminator a good talking to. They choose their heroes and their villains. One quarter of the class expresses the hope of playing major league soccer. Two of the girls believe in Prince Charming. One sees Prince Charming as a Mask for the Serial Girl Killer. One girl wanted to tell her own story without anybody guessing who she was talking about – a big step up from an old buddy from the coaching sessions who pouted as if I’d invented the word incident just so he wouldn’t know what I was talking about.
A lot of other things happened yesterday. For instance, my email account re-appearing through Firefox (but non-existent if I attempt access through Google).
As for Archy and Mehitabel: she remained toujours gai, while Archy the cockroach pondered why he, with the soul of a Milton, had a near-death experience in the Christmas mince meat.
What happens next over here? Another bowl of coffee. The rest, I’ll see about as it happens.