Another weird dream (real-world tie-ins in the footnotes). I?ve lost most of it in the intervening couple of hours, but it seemed to centre around a meeting with Steve B of LeoNCo (sorry, can?t give complete names here because search engines have a nasty habit of spidering my pages and giving them undue prominence in embarrassing situations [oops – that search used to bring my Christmas Party pictures up at #2] where a company forgets to build its own website). Steve wanted us to undergo a second merger, and he had a huge list of direct marketing companies from which I was to pick our new partner. I hadn’t heard of any of them1 (well, maybe one or two), and I insisted that he choose, as he knew the industry inside-out, whereas I only know the Internet side of things. But nevertheless he kept pushing me for a reply, sparking off some kind of quest for the ultimate below-the-line agency which took on epic proportions (would probably have made a good movie. Then again, maybe not).
At another point in the dream, I was making fruit juice, the hard way – with my hands. I had a huge tub (like a water butt: green, plastic and barrel-like) full of green fruit (mainly apples and kiwis). I kept pushing and squashing, trying to squeeze every last drop of moisture2 out of the fruity pulp. Bits of kiwi skin slithered between my fingers as I tried in vein to separate the flesh from the skin. I threw my weight on top of thick round sections of something seeming like pineapple, but which was actually apple, knowing that the stringy pulp must still be harbouring some liquid. However much I laboured, I could never be completely successful and I felt the frustration bitterly.
I can’t quite recall how the dream ended, but I do remember that it was during a formal gossiping session3 – a group of males from work each teamed with their female “work-wife” (a person especially selected for their complementary personality – the next best thing to a girlfriend during events where partners are not permitted) and the group sat exchanging “he never did”‘s, “she did what”‘s and “ooh he is, isn’t he”‘s
At lunch yesterday, Joe had been talking about a Campaign report listing ad agencies – many of which he had never heard of. He was horrified (or faux-horrified or whatever) at the number of direct marketing agencies listed.Â
I seem to have spent a large proportion of the last two hazy alcohol-sozzled days squeezing juice out of lemons. In the morning, I wake up, boil the kettle, and drop a lightly-bruised slice of lemon into my cup of steaming water. At lunch time, I order mineral water and repeatedly squeeze the lemon wedge nestling among the ice, trying to stimulate the alkaline-forming effect to combat the effects on my stomach of the previous night’s drinking. In the evening, I order Bloody Mary in the assumption than anything tasting quite so evil must be doing a modicum of good. Peeping through the swirling red and brown is an incongruous speck of yellow or green that betrays the lemon or lime chunk hiding below the surface.