Dreaming

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Oh my God, fat hair!

I just had a birthday. And, after a lovely day of presents, delicious food and general flopping around in the ocean I went to bed and had a rather vivid dream.

I was in a mechanics’ workshop, trying to explain to a 19 year old manboy that my diesel bicycle was not hitting its power-band. (Like I said: dream).

Anyway, the young chap sighed, looked me hard in the eye and said;

‘It’s not working because you’re sitting on it. You are too fat, lady. You are a fat old lady’.

He delivered these words almost like a chore, as if this fact alone was so self-evident that he shouldn’t even need to push the foetid air past his shiny white teeth.

Of course, this is the point where I’m supposed to wake up in a cold, thundering sweat, freaking out about my pending mid-life crisis.

But I didn’t freak out. Or wake up. In fact, I kept dreaming. Here’s what happened next.

The young man turned away from me with the thinly veiled disgust of someone who spends an eighth of each day with his own, lonely cock in his hand. I reached out and yanked the front of his overalls. As he stumbled towards my sweaty face, I said;

‘Look here, you tumescent little turd. If you think getting a woman skinnier than me is going to work out well for you, then think again. I’m sure you spend your humid under-blanket moments lusting over some scrawny bint with the je ne sais quoi of a pair of tights filled with coat hangers but let me tell you, the only thing standing between her and a dish-rack is a thick coat of spray tan. At least a dish rack is useful’.

And then I slapped him on his greasy, stubbly little chin and fixed the bike myself.

My dream was unexpected, but welcome.

I have no time for the paranoid foibles of middle age. Fuck that shit. I’ve had a bloody good run, and it just keeps getting better. I have earned my aches and pains and they were worth every bleeding moment. The modern obsession with youth is little more than a fear of wisdom – we idolise inexperience and stupidity, to do otherwise would be dangerous.

Well, screw that. I’m only just hitting my straps.

NB. I’m not actually fat – but maybe my subconscious thinks I am so I’m suffocating it in a layer of chocolate.

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