The nightmares have started. In the most recent one I hold a winning ticket.
In reality, I’ve never held a winning ticket, despite daily/weekly/monthly forking out toonie after loonie until my pockets are empty.
Last December, for frig sake, Dearest Duck dragged me off to The Mall in Carbonear and abandoned me smack dab in the middle of the concourse where some group — the Lions’ Club p’raps — was raffling off Christmas turkeys.
A Missus standing beside a cart filled with enough grub to stog Mother Hubbard’s cupboards clutched the only four tickets already sold for the upcoming spin of The Wheel when Dearest Duck forsook — yes, forsook — me. Against the advice of frowning Christmas angels, I dumped sufficient coin into Mr. Lion’s hand for the remaining tickets. Truly. The Wheel clattered.
In anticipation, I squat the sheave of tickets in my hand. The Wheel stopped… … and Mr. Lion announced the winning number…
… and Missus with the overloaded cart shuffed off with promises of a fine, fat Christmas turkey.
So, p’raps you can understand why the unlikeliness of me holding a winning ticket might be the stuff of nightmares.
Although I never win I keep buying. However — and this might sound a smidgen perverse — I never buy a ticket offering as a prize a Trip to foreign climes. I do not buy for fear of winning.
I am not a travel enthusiast.
Thus it is nightmare fare, my holding a winning ticket for — guess what? — a trip for two to anywhere that airplanes fly.
In the nightmare of the moment, Dearest Duck propels me towards the security checkpoint at The Airport. My carryon backpack is chock-a-block with assorted metal objects I hope will trigger an alarm: forks and knives I snatched from the kitchen drawer; nail clippers and knitting needles Dearest Duck had removed from her purse; a few nuts and bolts I grabbed from the basement.
Friggin’ nightmare, I’m waved on through even though I repeat loudly, “Bomb! There’s a bomb!”
Everybody knows something causes nightmares. Ebenezer Scrooge’s Christmas boog-a-boos were the result of a chunk of undigested bully beef bogged down in his belly.
Something Dearest Duck said caused mine.
“Harry, my homebody honey,” she said, “I’ve booked us a flight to go see Daddy’s Boy.”
That’s all it took for nightmares like mad ol’ Lady Macbeth’s “thick coming fancies” to plague my noggin … well, nightly.
Daddy’s Boy lives far, far away west of the Rocky Mountains, almost at the edge of a foreign ocean and if Star Trek technology could beam me there, visiting would not be so traumatic — except for the being away from home part.
Which is a whole other ‘baccy tin of worms, eh b’ys?
Although they are not my favourite places to roam, I can handle airports, at least in small doses, if flights are not delayed more than a couple of hours, and if Dearest Duck is at my side blithely exploring assorted Have-a-Goodtime pamphlets she’s plucked from a revolving rack.
It’s the airplanes that give me the yimmy-yams.
Not that I’m afraid to fly.
It’s the claustrophobic feeling I get when I’m encased inside those cigar-tube fuselages, squat in between Dearest Duck and … and — who knows? — someone who wants to chitchat at 30,000 feet.
And there’s a line-up at the toilets.
And — at the risk of being indelicate — I’m the victim of a prostate [may you never have one] not the proper size of a walnut but the painful size of a bloody big coconut.
And, because of said coconut, I need to pee.
Also, I confess, especially when flying above the Rockies, I do have troubling thoughts about crashing. That’s a lie. It isn’t the crashing that’s most troubling, although I’m sure that would frighten the whoopsie out of me, but the possible aftermath.
Again at the risk of being indelicate…
…remember that 1972 plane crash in the Andes? The one with the rugby team onboard? The one in the aftermath of which some of the survivors resorted to cannibalism to stay alive?
Well, when I’m sky-high above the Rockies [Yes, Dearest Duck has made me visit Daddy’s Boy before.] and Dearest Duck is asleep beside me, snoring … delicately … I can’t help thinking about surviving a crash and eventually having to — something like the sailor’s wife with her chestnuts in Macbeth — having to “munch, munch, munch” on the rump flesh of some of those folk blocking my passage to the toilet door…
… or they on mine, for that matter.
Brr … the stuff of nightmares, eh b’ys?
Thank you for reading.