Well, the decision has been made, we are going to Wales. While everyone
else was watching the Queen celebrate her sixty years on the throne (or sixty
years since they first actually put the crown on her head – I believe they’re
different dates, and I’ve stopped paying attention to the mundane or predictable
parts of the news) we’ve been packing. It has been a week that has seen both
Julie and I racked with dreams. When the alarm has gone off in the morning,
we’ve crawled with red ringed eyes into the waking world, still shaking from
the night before. Each of us has lost hours of the day on the phone to Dexter
Phillips, relating our dreams to him and hearing what went on in his head last
night – as well as what other members of our group have told him. Then at the
end of each day, mentally and physically exhausted, we curl up next to each
other and fearfully await the next instalment of our night-time terrors.
Clearly something has got to give. We cannot concentrate on our life anymore
at work, indeed the whole of waking life at the moment is hard after being torn
apart by our dreams. And so tomorrow neither of us will go to work, we will
each close the door to our flats for the last time, and start the train trip to
West Wales.
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