Confusion isn't a strong enough word here one moment, I was
happily swimming around in some sort of big pond looking for the way back out
to sea, the next I am on a plate, wondering what a plate is, suddenly light
and a door in the distance and there's this bloke with some keys saying that I
have been a reasonably good sole, and what do I fancy on the reincarnation
front.
Then there is a lot of mumbling about typos and lists,
someone says. "If the books don’t balance it's more than my jobs worth
come the day of judgment, what about the bloke next to him. Mumble mumble.. put
a rude picture on facebook last night… giving the council a hard time.. swore
at a seagull… time to have his soul in purgatory, teach him a lesson."
Next thing I know I'm drawing a chimneystack, eating my old
body in some amazing Italian sauce and explaining how pattress plates stop buildings fall outwards to a couple
of teenagers.
Every so often I get a funny feeling and have to look at the
sea for a bit.
Really it's a very good thing I didn’t have to drive the car
to the bookshop in Ramsgate, fish don’t usually go to bed, although there is
some sort of mythology about the great piscisophile with the rubber sheets,
wearing a snorkel and flippers, generally known as, He Who Is Best Avoided.
Wonderful dreams about the shimmering ocean, then along comes a damned great shark and I jump out of bed for obvious reasons, put on my flippers, have a shower and the next thing I know, I'm painting pub window frames and talking about quantum physics to a windfarmer, who is mostly interested in the Hassidic influences pertaining to World War One.
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