The trouble with mental incapacity is that sometimes one just cannot think of an appropriate tune to go with the drivel. Perhaps I should write a song with the title as above.
It actually relates to a dream I had last night. Not that I usually remember my dreams, but I know they are bad cos they always wake me up.
This particular one concerned my Father, long since departed from Middle Earth, and a friend who died suddenly some time ago. What they were doing at a holiday camp I do not know. Nor why my two sons were back in their pre-school days although their sister was of the age she is now. And the fact that I was being saddled with another baby, of which I have no knowledge, rather perplexed me.
Anyway, during the dream I had to carry the infant, wrapped in its swaddling, all around this static caravan site. Including the mini-crazy-golf course - wherein I encountered the Mother of one of Number One son's nursery colleagues - whilst trying to arrange the funeral of my dead friend with the assistance of his bereaved wife.
I would love to know what type of drugs I am on...perhaps I should go to one of those psychoanalytical dream-catchers. Trouble is, why should I pay good money to be told I am a looney? I know that already. I think the key part in psychoanalysis is 'anal'.
I must try to get more sleep and retain some of the dream memories. Then I could produce stuff like Syd Barrett, make a fortune and go off the deep end. Rather than just go off the deep end in penury.
Toodle-pip!
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