Dialogue with my subconscious, day four

13^th May 2010 (Thursday)

“Morning, boss. It’s not even seven thirty – I’m up bright and early as you see.”

“Yes and we both know why. You want to get your hour of writing in so you can go downstairs for some focaccia, don’t you?”

“Of course! Can’t wait. Can I get writing?”

“We never said that you could have focaccia – we said maybe. If you’re hungry and you’ve worked well.”

“Well, I’m hungry.”

“But who knows if you’ll work well.”

“I’ll try my best – does that count?”

“We’ll see.”

“So, task?”

“C4 and perhaps a brief look at C1.”

“I did look last night.”

“Good. Keep at it.”

“Can I go?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Very well.”

Eleven minutes later.

“Boss, I need some help. Can’t do it. Can I go downstairs and get some bread? I’m hungry.”

“No, you can’t. What do you need help on?”

“Everything – I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

“Perhaps you’re complicating things. What do you want to say?”

“Good question. I don’t know.”

“Well, write down the crude basics of what you want to say and flower it up afterwards. Or in your case complicate it.”

“Do I complicate things, boss?”

“Yes.”

“But how can I simplify things if they’re complicated?”

“They’re only complicated in your eyes.”

“I sometimes wish I wasn’t complicated, boss. That way I wouldn’t have to put egg on my head every time I have to wash my hair.”

“Well, it’s your choice.”

“I know. Although it’s come out well today, I have to say. A very nice shine and no lingering ‘eau de egg’ left behind…”

“Is this conversation actually leading anywhere?”

“Nowhere, boss.”

“Then I suggest you get on with your work.”

“Okey dokey.”

eleven o'clock.

“I’m back from my focaccia break. Delish, it was.”

“Good. Well, now back to work.”

“Haven’t I done?”

“How can you? You haven’t concluded anything.”

“Aagh, I’ve just been engulfed by a huge wave of sleepiness.”

“Hmmm. You timed that just right.”

“I can hardly resist it!”

“Resist. It’s the post focaccia feeling, that’s all.”

“Does that mean I can’t have it anymore? Oh no!”

“Well, perhaps if you didn’t eat quantities of focaccia to knock out a hippopatumus it would be acceptable.”

“Oh boss! I’m a hippopatumus!”

“Only in spirit. Now get on with your work.”

“I’m so tired. I can hardly go on. Can’t I lie down a minute?”

“Try to resist. Or go upstairs to the roof and get some air.”

“There’s already air in the room. It’s sleepy air though. I feel like I’m in that scene from Wizard of Oz when they go into the field of poppies or whatever it is and get caught by the sleepy spell. Perhaps someone has put a sleepy spell on me, boss?”

“It’s the focaccia. And probably in Wizard of Oz they’d all pigged out on focaccia beforehand.”

“Really? Yes, I suppose the tinman would have liked focaccia – it’s nice and oily…”

“Is the tinman relevant to your writing?”

“Nope.”

“Then it’s time to forget him and do some work.”

“Oh boss, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of steaming hot cocoa right now!”

“What wouldn’t you give?”

“Ehm, well actually, there’s quite a lot I wouldn’t give. Yes, an awful lot.”

“So you don’t really want it that much at all, do you?”

“No, perhaps not. But I want a lie down.”

“You’ve just had one – all night long from eleven till six this morning. One minute past six to be precise when you were supposed to get up at half five.”

“But I was nice and warm! And what kind of incentive is a freezing cold shower for getting someone out of bed?! Followed by drying off in a soggy towel?! Ah, it’s a hard life.”

“Well, if you don’t remember to hang the towels out to dry what do you expect?”

“But it was raining! Oh boss, even the weather is against me!”

“Poor, poor you. Now, you’ve been awarded focaccia to recuperate, so let’s see you doing some work.”

“What about the roof? Aren’t I supposed to go there?”

“If you get another bout of sleepiness, yes.”

“It’s moved from my head to my shoulders and my back – I can feel it slithering downwards, that slippery sleepiness.”

“Oh, how poetic.”

“One tries one’s best.”

“Now to work. Enough of your chatter.”

“Okey dokey.”

“Ok, boss. It’s now one thirty in the afternoon, I’ve just filled up on veg and rice (with lots of ginger and pepper) and I can tell you now, I’m ready to crash. I need to snooze, to zed, to ronf, to have a nice comfy lie down with a nice soft blanket…aaah!”

“Get these ideas out of your head. You know you have to clean the toilet.”

“Oh yippy doo. That’s a tempting reason to not go for a snooze. Can’t I do it another day?”

“You’ve got guests tomorrow. You can’t parade a toilet looking like that.”

“I shan’t parade it. I’ll tell it to keep quiet and stay put.”

“You’ve still got to clean it.”

“They might not even turn up – I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“That doesn’t matter. A clean environment is important for unjumbled thoughts.”

“But my thoughts will always be jumbled, regardless of what my toilet looks like.”

“They may not be. Now go forth and clean the bog.”