Roberta's 116th Dream...

A gentle snow was falling so that it felt like we were in a U2 video, one of the early ones filmed in Canada or somewhere, before Bono's chins started to take up too much space and they had to do them in widescreen and make Larry Mullen Jr. dress in drag (nice pins he has though, Larry - I'll give him that). Anyroad, I was casually constructing a rather large hammerhead shark out of recycled Mr. Sheen polish wipe sachets under the (rather matronly, it has to be said) supervision of Heather Mills McCartney when who should come along but Andrew 'Bloody' Collins. He may be a nerdy geek of a dwarf in real life, but in this dream he was bloody *huge*. Towered over us he did - *and* I had my sling backs on. And Heather her platform stump. The sheer intimidating nature of his physical presence, and the fact that I knew him to be a black belt in Origami, made me desist from my initial instinctive impulse to chin him one good and proper. (Well, I didn't want either of us to get folded to death, did I? - not even in a dream....)

Anyway, I'm glad I didn't butt him one, because he was alright actually - well, as alright as a fellow with a very pronounced yellow beak, wearing a suit made out Craft Dairylea triangles ever can be, I suppose. "How do", he said - all pally like to me, but *completely* blanking HMM. I know he's not a big Wings fan, I thought, but this is going a bit far, isn't it? "You must be Gram Parsons", he said running an approving eye over my beautifully tailored suit which was painstakingly embroidered with machine gun-toting lobsters and a very large, red haddock, and then proceeded to bore me for the next few minutes with a lengthy Marcusian deconstruction of the symbolism of the Gilded Palace of Sin album cover ( - it's "all about *drugs*", apparently...) Not wanting to disabuse him (in case he turned nasty and started wishing horrible ills on my parents - and before you ask, no, I didn't have the heart to tell him they're both dead - this is a dream after all, I can't be expected to remember *everything* ...) I nodded politely and joshed along with him when he appeared to find something he'd said particularly amusing, as one does when trying to be polite to someone 8 feet tall who could fold you into the shape of an oriental wading bird as soon as look at you. I threw in a quick rendition of 'The New Soft Shoe' for good measure that, I have to say, I think even Gram would have been proud of himself. Well, if he ever played it on a rusty firegrille with a piece of emery board, he would...

Song finished, bows taken Collins (who's still applauding and shouting 'encore, encore') walks right up to me, looks me in the eye, grabs me by the shoulder, picking at his beak with his spare claw. Here we go, I think, bones and flesh bracing at the thought of the impending diagonal creases he'll be subjecting them to any moment to indulge his elaborate and cunning decorative art. But instead of finding my ankle wrapped around my neck to form the upper wing of some ingenious avian figurine, he just stands there, peering at me inquisitively, shaking his head and tutting, before muttering "that's the thing with you Gram...I never know whether you're being serious or not..." And then he just flies off with Heather Mills McCartney in his beak, before dropping her in a very large jar filled with stones and singing "Is this the way to Amarillo" in word perfect Flemish...

"What can I do about my dreams?"





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