Dreaming the Future

It was quite late when I visited the Communist in hospital today - about seven o'clock in the evening - and the ward was quiet. I found I was quite enjoying feeding the Communist a cup of coffee - his hands were shaky tonight - and simultaneously talking to the Irish gentleman opposite about places we had both been to in Ireland.

Killarney? -- - No, he said, he hadn't been there.

Limerick? - - No.

Cork? - - No.

Dublin? - - No.

We had just concluded that, although he had a strong Irish accent, I had actually been to more places in Ireland than he had, when the Communist finished his coffee and suddenly said, in tones of slight amusement,

"I had a terrible dream last night."

"Go on," I said, "tell me."

"It was the day of Emily and Gareth's wedding," he said, "and I was in Tenby, on the beach."

Indeed, Emily and Gareth's wedding is planned for next February, at Park Hotel in Tenby: the hotel is on a headland with a steep cliff path to the beach.

"So what happened?" I asked.

"I was trying to get up the cliff path, because I didn't want to be late for the wedding," he said. "But the proper path was closed so I tried to climb the cliff. There was a lot of sand and loose rocks and it took me a long time but I finally made it. But when I got to the top, I found that I'd missed the wedding, and nobody had noticed."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," I said cheerily, "your brain's really tangling things up, isn't it? You'll be worrying about giving out the wrong medication in your chemist shop next."

But, of course, the likeliest thing is that he won't be at the wedding. And although he keeps saying that he wants to come, and we keep saying that we'll get him there if we possibly can, somewhere, deep down, he knows it.