Had a relapse. Today just slept and slept, with more clammy "responsibility dreams" where I let everyone down and managed to lose someone's prized ruby that was the size of a half an egg. Just to complicate matters this fabulous gem belonged (but exists only in my dream, I must hasten to add) to my ex-husband's ex-wife (in reality he did remarry, the same year I did, in 2003, but it didn't last long for them) and her new husband (who does exist, they live in NY State). I'd put it on a high shelf so their baby (who also exists, in the USA, with them) wouldn't put it in its mouth and choke on it, but it had been stolen in the night.
Why I was in charge of my ex-husband's ex-wife's baby I have no idea, but there's dreams for you.
Meanwhile it was suddenly Xmas Eve and The Husband (my lovely second spouse, who wouldn't hurt a flea, let alone me) kept insisting on going to the pub and standing rounds of drinks and spending a fortune, and he hadn't even wrapped his Xmas presents. At 11.30pm with only a half hour left to Xmas Day, still shirking all his seasonal responsibilities and now neglecting my sisters and their families, (who'd all descended on us for the holiday, bizarrely), he tried to drive off with some woman he'd known in the past to yet another pub. Aghast, heart-broken, and fearful for his safety I tried slow him down by grabbing the back bumper (which was a nice old-fashioned chrome one, held on by bolts, not an integral part of the bodywork) tore it clean off the car and smashed the back window with it until they stopped.
Shades of Mrs Tiger Woods, eh?
In the midst of all this convoluted dreaming I heard a knock on the door which I groggily dismissed as part of my diseased imaginings, especially as The Dog was with me on the bed and he didn't react to it at all. A little later, when I was half-up and about, leastways slobbing about shambolically in my dressing gown, I checked if there was any post to find a pile of eBay parcels, Xmas cards and letters in the porch atop which was a pack of luxury mince pies and a Camembert. Flummoxed, I tried to think who the mystery benefactor might be. A visitor for the lodger? How strange, if so - surely his friends would know he'd be a work.
OMG NO! A horrible dawn of realisation crept over me (shamefully, it was by now the middle of the afternoon - I don't DO mornings in the winter, especially if unwell, so "dawn" isn't quite the word I should have used there). It was a neighbour who'd I'd invited over for tea before I'd got ill. But surely she was coming on Thursday? Tomorrow.
A quick trip to the wall calendar confirmed it was Thursday. Today.
I've somehow lost a day in the muddle of being poorly, and so now my name is as much mud when I am awake as when I was asleep. There is no place to hide from my incompetence and dilatory nature, both real and imagined. I shall have to take up residence in Grovelsville day and night until I get myself sorted OUT. I've sent an abjectly apologetic e-mail (I also can't find her phone number; is there no end to the error of my ways?) and will try to make amends by not touching the mince pies and cheese until we can enjoy them together.
Tomorrow I must get up and dressed good and early and take them round to hers for elevenses. Along with a big fat juicy slice of home-made humble pie.