Dreaming

I read once that dreams help you to process experiences, and that you cannot dream about someone you don't know or haven't met. I can't say how true this is, but as I can't recall strangers in dreams it could be true.

 

I am scraping the barrel here. I have determined to write a blog post today, and my mind has gone blank, and a quick delve into my subconscious, has dragged up this really weird dream I had last night. Something must be going on, but what it is, I have no idea. I was back in a school that I worked in forty years ago, and I was incensed because I was the headteacher, but had just been ousted in a coup led by my good friend and all round lovely person, Angela.

 

A little background here. I was never the headteacher of Newtons School, nor did I aspire to be. Angela is the sweetest person I know, and Pauline, a complete nonentity that I didn't know I remembered.

 

I was mad! I reasoned, cajoled, threatened, but Angela was adamant, a decision had been made at a meeting of The Singing Group that I had to go, and that was that, Pauline was taking over, and would I like to see the Jobs Vacant list?

 

Being a dream, the job vacancies were on one of those rolling calendar ring-binder type of things that seemed to display only houses for sale. No-one thought this odd.

 

The situation was ludicrous, the plot incredible, but the FEELINGS! My, they were real! Anger, frustration, disappointment, futility, betrayal …

 

It was a relief to wake up.

 

Maybe there IS something I need to come to terms with here. Stuff I thought I'd dealt with …

 

Nope, not going there.

 

Happy Tuesday, everybody. See you in my dreams!

 

 

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Number Five!

Grandchildren! What a delight!

When I, rather involuntarily, left work in 2009, one of my colleagues said, “Now you can spend more time with Rosie.” And a light came on. With almost total recall, all the things about being the headteacher of a very small school that I DIDN’T enjoy (teaching NOT being among them …) flashed before my eyes … Taking the temperature of the water and logging it, so that nobody died of Legionnaire’s Disease, putting salt down on the playground on frosty mornings, explaining to an inspector who should have known better, that serious inferences cannot be drawn from cohorts of eight … And on and on …

Rosie is the eldest of my grandchildren: she was the only one, back then, but now there are five … And I adore them all. The latest addition to the clan was born a week ago today, and already it’s as if he was always coming: we were just waiting for him to be here. He’s the star in the photo below.

I have visited with them all this week. Here are the highlights:

Rosie, 9, now singing in her daddy’s choir talking about the Christmas repertoire.

Abigail, 5, listening, wide-eyed through my dramatic re-telling of The Three Billy Goats Gruff, then remarking, “You used LOTS of adjectives, grandma!”

Sam, 2, running away and hiding under the table in the middle of a nappy change, “Go away! I”m busy!”

Frank, 8 months, giving me his stellar smile before crawling off commando -style to investigate the vacuum cleaner.

And now, Finley, a lovely warm bundle, sleeping soundly through all the fuss as he meets and greets his extended family.

I’m proud of them all, and very thankful to my amazing daughters and sons-in-law, for allowing me to be part of their lives!

Finley, Auntie Kate and Mum, Hannah.

 

 

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