Tall tales, cliques and whispers (the literary life)…

I had the following dream. There was a mini-bus, a bit like the Mystery Machine, out of Scooby Doo. It was going on a tour, and passengers were invited. I accepted this invitation. Not for the first time in my life, I turned up to find that what I had chosen was not, in fact, the popular choice. I was the only passenger. Still, there was some sense of luxury and privilege in such a position, not to mention, well, uniqueness.

The driver was a very tall, big-boned, soft-bellied homeless man with tangled red locks and a vast red beard, which was eternally damp with drool and alcohol around the region of his lips. He was energetic, however, and loyal and purposeful. This tour had given him purpose. It was his tour, he was in charge, and I was his responsibility.

His loyalty, however, in some way overflowed, and I found myself, quite soon, having to fend off sexual advances. Luckily he got the message. He was much bigger than me, after all, and could have decided not to take 'no' for an answer. On the other hand, I got the sense that he had not given up his designs upon me.

We stopped at a canteen. Troubled in mind, I paced about, making a conscious effort to avoid the driver. What should I do? Should I simply abandon the tour altogether? That would be extremely impolite. No, best to stick with it, and simply fend off whatever advances were made in a demure fashion, like a maiden defending her modesty.

Unfortunately, however, he noticed that I was avoiding him. Our eyes met, and I saw a terrible indignation in his. Soon he had told all his friends in the canteen. They paraded between the aisles there, holding up placards denouncing me as a two-faced traitor.

_{This is my time.}