Monk Quixote

So the wheels have started turn­ing again. I feel the itch to con­nect with my fic­tional chums who sit wait­ing like old toys in boxes for me to re-discover my inner chid­dler. I put part of the blame down to Mar­tin O’Brien and his Jacquot nov­els, plus An Inter­pre­ta­tion of Mur­der, by Jed Ruben­feld. And part down to stuff going on at work that I really don’t want to blog about.

I’ve been hav­ing really strange dreams. I’m used to hav­ing ultra-realistic dreams, whereas recently I’ve been hav­ing ‘odd’ dreams that are directly related to day to day stuff going on. A new mem­ber of staff, naked except for tiger tat­toos; explor­ing a new house — dis­cov­er­ing water dam­age every­where a la Dark Water, mit­i­gated by dis­cov­er­ing a cin­ema screen and hor­ror pin­ball arcade; dreams in car­toon, a la Fam­ily Guy; escap­ing the Nazis; the list goes on. Think­ing about it, I fre­quently dream of my youngest brother when explor­ing new houses. Although the ref­er­ence point is a build­ing site, and goril­las. Hmm. Curi­ouser and curiouser.

It is just begin­ning to feel like the time. You know. After all, Jonathan Ross won’t be around to inter­view me for­ever. One has to update the Com­mit­ments every now and again.

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