(no subject)
Attended a funeral yesterday. The crematorium where it was held was appropriately (I suppose) cold, bleak and wintry with bare trees and a clear cold blue sky. The funeral went as well as these things can, but gained an air of strange magnificence when the coffin was piped into the chapel by a piper in full regalia - kilt and sporran. I hope he had warm underwear.
This morning, woke dreaming that I had died and that my body had been propped up at the bottom of the garden of the house in Watford which was the family home from 1977 until my father's death in 2002. I watched from a short way off as my face started to sag and my body (I was wearing a suit) tipped over; and then my father appeared and cried out "Peter is dead" at the top of his voice. My observing self tried to reassure him that I was all right really.
And then I woke up, otherwise I wouldn't be remembering and recording this dream now.
This morning, woke dreaming that I had died and that my body had been propped up at the bottom of the garden of the house in Watford which was the family home from 1977 until my father's death in 2002. I watched from a short way off as my face started to sag and my body (I was wearing a suit) tipped over; and then my father appeared and cried out "Peter is dead" at the top of his voice. My observing self tried to reassure him that I was all right really.
And then I woke up, otherwise I wouldn't be remembering and recording this dream now.