Dream of a trip to Israel

I dreamed I was flying via Bedford, to Israel for a week and I was late for my plane. Sonja and I were hurrying to the airport on a clear, warm evening. We crossed the edge of the city (seemed more like Orlando than anywhere else) and as I felt somebody following close behind – I turned and a balck-bearded orthodox Muslim man in maybe algerian garb with a deformed eye inches away was glaring at me. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted but he kept following and I kept hurrying to try to lose him, and telling him over my shoulder to leave me alone. Eventually we reached the green clipped lawns of the airport, and the 12 foot-high mesh fence – it occurred to me that I could shake the man off my trail by using my special entrance to the airport (it didn’t seem to matter whether he saw me use it or not – it was just going to work). But when I got there, the low horizontal-rectangular opening that I’d expected to cross the fence through had been decreased to nearly letterbox size. I got onto the ground but quickly realised I couldn’t fit. I got up and grumpily said to the other two that I couldn’t fit and I’d have to go round to the other exit. I was pretty sure I’d missed my plane, but was determined to see things through. At that stage the man stopped being in the dream – he’d begun to seem more deranged than menacing anyway.

Sonja and I entered the precinct through the main gates, which was beautifully landscaped. We weren’t sure where check-in was. I was wondering whether to go to Kings X, take the Thameslink to Bedford and catch up with the plane in the morning. Then as we were dashing around the gardens in the evening sun, trying to find the buildings and planes, Sonja asked me about my holiday plans. It emerged – and I hadn’t quite appreciated this myself until I went over it with her – that I had no luggage, no currency, no plans, no bookings – not even my passport. I kept telling her that I’d work it out when I got there, but secretly I was remembering how the time drags when you don’t have an itinerary, and how it would probably turn into a case of killing time until I could go home and resume my life. That’s all.

Went to my breast follow-up appointment today. Another idiot who didn’t introduce himself despite quite a good hint I concocted. I was in there about 90 seconds, to establish that I hadn’t changed my mind and didn’t want the lumps out. Actually I hadn’t checked – nobody had told me to either. The biopsy says they’re benign and part of me thinks they’re no longer my problem. Besides I don’t like touching them and feeling the lumps. But I’ve been discharged so I’ll have to get over that attitude – I’m the only one to tell if they change size.

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