Red Fog

Last night, I dreamt that I was supporting Mel Tormé in concert.

I was doing a few minutes of comedy to warm up the crowd before he came on.

I try not to talk about my dreams too much, but I thought I'd mention this one as it demonstrates the credulity of the unconscious person.

Because, whatever talent I may have for comedy, I think everyone would agree that this arrangement is indicative of an incredibly poorly-booked evening of entertainment.

There are several reasons for this.

1) The combination of comedy and music is not necessarily a bad one. Alternative comedy acts supported punk bands in the 80s, for example. But these acts at least had an overlap of demographics; perhaps even a philosophical similarity in the pursuit of their art. But I would imagine that the stark contrast between my hilarious sideways look at life and Tormé's melodious crooning would be quite jarring. Especially for the elderly.

2) Mel Tormé has been dead for thirteen years, hampering his range.

***

I wrote the above on Saturday.

I'd forgotten about both the dream and the blog post. I was probably going to go into more depth there. Two reasons are not "several reasons". I'm sure you can spot the other flaws in the booking for yourself. You don't need me to spell them out. Not all of them.

Ah, well.

My flies were undone earlier.

If I was in America, my fly would have been undone.

I don't know why we pluralise it and they don't. It's probably the same principle as the great math/maths divide. And trouser.

I'd been out doing glamorous things, like picking up a prescription and heading to the pharmacy (not necessarily in that order). I'd had friendly chats with people. I thought I was being quite the charming devil, making witty remarks, high-fiving a cycling policemen, helping a group of children crack a smuggling ring, buying a flower for a veteran.

But then I realised that I hadn't zipped up this morning. And my smug world collapsed like a house of cards that had seen a ghost.

The embarrassment wasn't the worst part. The worst part was having to re-evaluate my whole morning. What had seemed to be a pleasant jaunt became, in crystal clear retrospect, a farce. I wasn't charming, I wasn't witty, I wasn't suave. I was an oblivious oaf.

Everything I knew was wrong. It was like the end of The Usual Suspects.

My balls were Keyser Söze.

***

Another thing that happened to me today (if you're counting, that's two), is that I had to scan my passport for a boring legal purpose.

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like the uncle who Osama bin Laden was reluctant to invite to Christmas dinner, in case something nasty kicked off.

[Let's quickly break down the problems with that sentence. This time there actually will be several.

1. It's too long.
2. It's an obvious joke.
3. I could have said "I look like a terrorist" and it would have worked just as well.
4. It's clumsily expressed.
5. I should have made a more specific terrorist example, rather than "something nasty".
6. Muslims don't celebrate Christmas.
7. It's probably racist.

There are loads more. Mel Tormé will be turning in his grave.]

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like a terrorist.

[That's better.]

But the scanner wasn't great. Maybe I didn't push down the photocopier... lid... flap... thing far enough (no-one's ever accused me of working for Canon).

There wasn't enough light, so I went from "terrorist" to "mystery demon":

I hope the people at the Early Learning Centre don't object. I can't wait to harm some children.

Sorry, that should be help some children. I have a typing impediment.

***

To conclude this delightful blog trip to Planet Paul, I should tell you that I've signed up to do NaNoWriMo. I said I'd do it, and I have done it.

(National Novel Writing Month is where you attempt to write 50,000 words of fiction in one month. It will be a struggle.)

They say you should tell people about it, so that you'll be a public failure if you give up. Though they word it a little more positively than that.

But I don't want to tell people. I don't like talking to people for any reason.

I'm not going to tell people. Instead, I'm going to tell you.

So now you know.

If this subject never comes up again, it's because I gave up. Or have been killed in a paragliding/carbon monoxide conspiracy.

Here's my NaNoWriMo page:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/diamondbadger

For all I know, you may need to be a member to see it. I haven't provided details of my novel yet, because I still have NO IDEA what it will be about.

Ah, well.

Well.

Goodbye.