Wednesday, June 22, 2011

How To Live In San Pedro

How to live in San Pedro?

You carry a whip on your hip.

I really ought to write period or full stop now to illustrate the simplicity of my insight, but I’m not the kind of blogger who ever writes period or full stop (apart from when I’m making some kind of point*) so I won’t.

* this not supposed to be a pun, btw — it’s just what happens when you get sidetracked**

** like a donkey falling into a ditch along with a painted caravan full of cheery Irish ruffians***
*** see?

How do I know this?

In the merest whisker of the dream I had last night, I’m walking down the street in San Pedro. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. It’s back-to-back terraces on a sloping hill and though I haven’t yet altavisted ‘San Pedro’, I’m guessing said US burg doesn’t boast those. Gauchos, probably, and some twat dressed as Yul Brynner driving around in a car the size of a beached whale (I’m presuming San Pedro is by the sea).

Anyhow, I have a whip on my hip — in a Didn’t Watch Indiana Jones Or Miss Bondage Queen IV Last Night So WTF kind of a way. Maybe there’s a shortage of belts in the dream world, I don’t know. Maybe the angels of the unconscious were being kind to me by handing me a whip to tie round my waist so my modesty wouldn't be compromised when my trousers fell down in San Pedro. I don’t make the rules.

So: me, whip, San Pedro. That was my dream.

Or almost.

Just as the delights of Cheesy Classics FM roused me from my sleep with some chorale nightmare, a guy cries out (and I didn’t see whether this was from a diner, a parking lot, or the saddle of a whippet while bounding down the aforementioned sloping hill), “that guy knows how to live.”

It’s not often my dream observers are so kind to me, particularly in so brief a dream, but as I meandered downstairs to make a cup of tea, it felt like I’d been lent a certain swagger, like I was that Dream Me, strolling down the street in San Pedro with my whip.

But not for long.

Sometimes, reality can be so cruel with its Hard Rocks Of Reality disillusionment: I’d left the back door open last night and as I stood to boil the kettle, whip almost in hand, my all-too-real foot squished into the back of an all-too-realer a guest slug.


Old Kitty said...

I combed a slug out of Charlie once. Unfortunately Charlie was on my bed. The scenario that occurred straight after was a nightmare. I still wake up screaming.

Take care

Whirlochre said...

Slugs are no fun, especially when they form part of your cat.

fairyhedgehog said...

Now I'm even more puzzled. You wore silky lingerie to entertain your guests as per your next post, and your guests were slugs?

Has anyone ever suggested to you that you might be weird?

Sylvia said...

If you were in San Pedro in Spain, you would be within visiting distance of me. However, you would not be near the sea.