Back then – late-late nineties – the woman had the following claims to fame: she had been the public mistress of a French political figure; she had been a political figure of import in Quebec, occupying several ministerial posts; a major woman’s magazine had included her in the list of Quebec’s Most Beautiful Women (Hollywood standards need not apply).
None of those claims to fame ever applied to me so how should I know how I would preen and chant Off with their Heads in similar circumstances? I do know she made an ugly stink when she found me sitting at the main table at a public event. She was the guest speaker. I was one of the workshop leaders. Well. She had known me as a lowly press aid – kitchen help, really. “What is she doing here?” she asked. Loud, too.
In last night’s dream, I answered the phone at the request of the choir leader. ‘Twas the lady of great claims to fame, wishing to speak to the choir leader and wanting to know who the hell was answering the phone in her stead. The choir leader didn’t want to talk to her. I made all the expected insincere apologies.
I note this early on in the day because I haven’t given this woman a moment’s thought in over twenty years. Dreams are funny that way.
Still no sign of a contract but the schedules – ah, the schedules. Fortitude, my daughter wished me the other day. Indeed. Plus strong sphincters. In one school, I get a pee break between classes; not in the two others.
Still working on the scheduling puzzle today. Story is in the low-flying zone i.e. I’m reworking existing material with something of a treadmill feeling. A few of the major additions, still refusing to land.
Commenting all the War Fear and Panic news yesterday, a local restaurateur vowed to me he would grab a gun and “rid the world of scum” yes sirree. He had to step outside for a smoke, first, so that’s one major bloodbath averted.