I have some very odd dreams, especially since I have to depth-charge myself with Benadryl at this time of year to be sure I will still be breathing when I wake up. In the predawn dark today my subconscious conjured up a story about preparations for some local civic dinner at which the master of ceremonies, as is often in fact the case, was the hapless local newspaper editor who modeled for the narrator of my little comic mystery novels about local politics (his fate was sealed when he spiked a theater review I wrote on special request, but that was another story). The party in question is a testy old-maid bachelor whom I always thought was about five years older than I am till I found out he was fifteen years younger — the kind of guy who is born wearing a Rotary pin.
In the dream, after somehow maneuvering him into selecting me as his co-emcee and picking out, from a selection, an elaborate necklace of gray glass stones for me to wear, I accompanied him to the banquet room where, on a large stand placed at the entrance by the caterer, a banner encouraged attendees to try the wonderful Laxative Cake available on the dessert menu.
This may or may not have something to do with a mysterious Google Ad that cropped up in Gmail recently. Or it may have had some internal rationale, so to speak, in the dream. I’ll never know because an alarm that I had no recollection of setting, and didn’t need, went off about then, filling the role of Coleridge’s infamous Person from Porlock.
If I write another one of those mysteries it would be a good subplot.