Southern Hemisphere

Here is last night’s dream. We watched a recording of the Wales V Japan rugby match on the TV in which there was little inventiveness on the part of Wales.

The dream starts in a daylit room. I am sorting out some washing and come upon a red old-style rugby jersey made of thick linen and with a white button up collar. It has long sleeves and has been worn before. It is mine. I pick it up, take off my t-shirt and try it on. It fits if a little tight. There is a strong feeling of Southern hemisphere.

I am next walking with John Williams to a clubhouse facility in the middle of several grass sports pitches some of which have rugby goal posts. I am dressed in normal clothes. We enter the clubhouse and it is the London Welsh rugby club dressing rooms / clubhouse. I am welcomed back by several of the team who recognise me. There are some new faces and everyone is getting changed into the red rugby jerseys with white old-style shorts. There are several teams from elite to social. The club physios and doctors are there. Siân and her team of young female physios are there. She is dressed in t-shirt and shorts with her blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. She has a strong Welsh accent. She is checking that people are fit to play. She comes over and has a cursory examination of my back and hips and clears me.

I am then ushered over to a table by the club “secretariat”. They want me to sign a membership form and pay my club dues. They say that a portion of the fee goes to the WRFU to help the national team. I say that I do not know which address to put in as I am between places. “Do I put in my French address for now?” “Yes”.

We do not yet know if we will be playing because there has been some snow overnight and the pitch might be too hard. We make our way out to the pitch. As I will be playing hooker from the bench I will need to know the lineout calls. One of the props says that he will whisper the actual as opposed to coded call for me so that I know where to throw in. I ask him to “scrum down” with me so that I can test how my hips hold up under pressure. We do this and I am able to hold his push and twist his body and lift him. He says that I will be fine, I cannot keep my Ventolin in my pocket. So I walk to the halfway touch flag and deposit it there, next to the pole.

The referee has declared the pitch match ready and we prepare for kick off. Even though I am old I know that in terms of cardiovascular and strength I will be able to keep up.

The dream ends.

I am reminded of my Dancing with Ganesh dream on waking.

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Around 40 years ago I played in a social rugby team at London Welsh which was filled with young professionals. The pack has several Ph.D. and lawyers.

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I wake up. It is around 5 AM. I feel no pain. Slowly the pain in my spine builds in. I drift off back to sleep.

It is ago, a few hundred years, and I am in Saint Petersburg at some kind of posh social event. I am among a delegation that is working between France and Russia, to try to find common ground. It is delicate work and the French are being difficult and uncooperative. The Russians are waiting for the French to decide and commit to something. A senior Russian court figure says to me that I need to make it clear that to the French it is they the French who are holding things up. I speak both languages. This segment pertains to “pony-tail” man. I am he again.

The dream ends

This dream was from around 5 AM this morning.

The dream opens in a conference / sports facility which is shared by a female and a male fee-paying private schools. The schools are top end, and the facility is top notch but shared. There is both history and luxury. My team and I are clearing up after a successful course for teenagers from disturbed backgrounds. The course has gone well but our efforts to tidy are hindered by the incredible mess left by the previous users. Trays from the canteen are left partially washed, clogging up the sinks, the bins are full. Most of it is not our mess, but we need to clean it up to hand over to the next users. We struggle to get things sorted. The wife’s open heeled brown shoes have been left in different places. I get them together. It is late afternoon, and the new delegates are arriving. At last, the place is ship shaped, and Bristol fashioned.

The incoming users are a high-level international conference with many big cheeses from academia, government and business. We are just making our way to the school sleeping accommodation. Prof. T and several of his colleagues are entering the atrium as we leave. He comes over to me and congratulates me for being invited to this high-level conference. I explain to him that I have not been invited and nor am I participating. Those are not circles I walk in and I probably never will. He is surprised. I say that I have just done a course for a couple of dozen semi-delinquent teenagers. He does not get it. It does not fit his picture.

We head off to the accommodation blocks and fall tired onto the bed to sleep. It is a long drive back. During the night I need a piss. There is for us, no ensuite. I will have to use the toilet block down the corridor. I wrap a towel around my waist and go to piss in a big metal urinal.

The scene changes and I am walking around a very muddy farm. I am wearing my combats and a white sports vest. I explore the farm enjoying the mud on my bare feet and through my toes. I know that the farm is a part of the school and conference complex. It provides fresh produce. I know that the whole thing is set in New Zealand.

As I turn the corner I am met by a Kiwi farmer. He asks what I am doing. I explain that I have just done a course at the school. He says that it is a bit strange to see me walking bare foot in all the mud and that it must hurt. I say that because I partially grew up in Oz and Southern Africa that it is normal for me. He turns to a mate and says that all bloody Aussies are nuts.

The dream ends.

Tag: Southern Hemisphere

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