Dreams of Wealth and Bungalows

I dreamed that…

We’d spent vast quantities of money. To everyone else, it seemed profligate. They didn’t realise it was in invesment. It would pay off. We were on to a sure fire thing. Nobody realised.

Even Ewan, the epitome of reasonability, started appearing, menacing, on street corners; a shotgun carried with a casual air of violence that doesn’t give a fuck either way. Even his meek, mild brother, who we had promised a job, started to tire of waiting, and threatened to tell his brother where we were hidden, as he crouched in alleyways eating lard. And everywhere there were gangster vultures wheeling.

Meanwhile…

We retreated into our underground home. We were totally safe there. We’d rather not have to be safe. But our home, a rodent series of earthen chambers linked by gnawed tunnels, was perfect. We could extend it to our heart’s extent, but there was no need – what did we want more room for. A different kind of room would have been nice, an outside social meeting-people kind of space. But everything was very much hunky dory on the living side. Perfect.

Or at least, it had been. The lowermost room, our original excavation, was flooded with water that was unable to shake the remembrance of a past freezing point from its atomic memory. We could live perfectly OK without the room but… it was such a shame. It was where we used to keep everything that actually had a use.

Meanwhile.

…unflushed toilets festered down there, along with bloated green-pimpled corpses which, despite no reason for shame nor guilt, we had somehow never got around to telling the police about. We swam down to try and tidy things up a bit but, although Gill handled the waters like a stoic, within seconds I felt hypothermic. We retreated upwards.

To a meeting with the Rolling Stones and their angelic children, where my uncle Mick Jagger finally, reluctantly, agreed to lend me £1000 as long as I could guarantee to pay it back in twelve months time. As he handed over the cash he protested, in well-practiced tones, that “everyone thinks I’m made of bleedin’ money”. Well, they would, wouldn’t they?