Early this morning, when I was still in slumberland, I dreamt I killed Abraham Lincoln.
I'll pause here while you re-read that statement.
You still here?
Hi, Southerners! (I'm assuming all the Northerners have gone.)
Well, it's true: I was in a room alone with Lincoln and I plunged a narrow-blade knife into his heart.
*Gulp*. (I didn't gulp in the dream. I simply waited for those who'd come to arrest me. Calm as can be.)
And then I heard their footsteps. When the footsteps reached the door of the room, the Builder walked into the bedroom with my morning cuppa.
Phew! I hadn't killed Abe! I wasn't being arrested. And the Builder was here with my cuppa (my first cuppa of the day is a cup of hot water, but that's beside the point.) It's not the first time he saved the day for me.
Please tell me that y'all think it's normal to have dreams like that. No?
I also think I know where all most of the different aspects of my dream came from:
* I reckon the killing-of-a-President came from having watched part of a docu-drama about JFK's assassination on Saturday night. (He wasn't assassinated on Saturday night. Rather, we watched the programme on Saturday night.)
* I reckon my choice of weapon and choice of mode of killing (I can't believe I'm writing these words) came from one of the last scenes in Conn Iggulden's series on Genghis Khan.
So before any dream psychologists seek to take me on as their dream patient, that's my dream explained.
Except the fact that it was Abe. Why him? Well, I'll have to leave that question to the experts ...
Thank you all for listening.