So in last night’s — or more precisely, this late morning’s — dream, I found myself in the apartment house where my late and ex husband retreated to live with his mother, staying over with him in the apartment she had left him (not quite a correlation with real life), and making a visit to a bathroom down the hall, British-hotel-style, wherein one of the commodes was wholly occupied by a platypus belonging to one of the other residents.
Because apparently, a platypus needs to be soaked regularly. At least in my dream world.
Whether or not this has anything to do with attending a screening of the Song of Bernadette, involving the miraculous healing waters of Lourdes (which emerged in what was originally the municipal dump), is up in the air. Or down in the commode, depending.