Stiff Gin Required

What is a stiff gin? A glass of gin, with quite a lot of gin in it? That’s what I’ve always sort of thought it might be. I quite like gin. A stiff gin can be a gin and tonic where the mixer doesn’t dominate apparently, and I quite like gin and tonic with non-dominating mixer. I felt a bit like I needed one of these earlier. But a stiff glass of cask red wine will need to suffice at this time, because it’s here with me now.

Talking about a stiff gin seems to imply some need of artificial courage and I’m not sure I really am in need of such medicinal assistance, but it might help. In fact I can’t think of many situations when there is no help to be had in a quick belt of something.

When we got home from work earlier Laetitia was telling me about dreams she had last night, unsettling dreams, stressful dreams and I listened and tried to sympathise without jumping all over her recountings of what mostly seemed vague impressions. Yes, I could have provided a few judgements and taken the conversation by the scruff of the neck, but that was not the right thing to do at the time. Laetitia seems to be working through a few areas of baggage (for want of a better word) and her interpretation that these issues she is processing, possibly even getting out of her system, certainly attempting in a subconscious way to deal with and sort properly into the areas where people, places and events can be left for when they are needed by the psyche later seems sound to me. The Interpretation of Dreams (1900) is a fascinating book, although I have to say he lost me a bit when Freud went all scientific at the end and wrapped up his various judgements and analyses into a theory – I like the stories his patients told about their dreams and how he interpreted those sleeping experiences, based on the patient’s personal clinical circumstances. But I’ve always thought dreams fascinating. I don’t dream much, but there have been some memorable ones, including talking to a green fairy a few years ago and showing her the way to my bedroom (what was planned for the fairy and I is unclear now, as is why I was asleep, talking to strange fairies, but not in my bed, in my bedroom).

So I told my very brief dream to Laetitia. I so rarely have anything to contribute in the “Yeah, well guess what happened to me?” vein that it felt good to recall this and be involved. I told her that I had felt myself shaken awake, a short sharp jolt, and had looked up to see the upper body of a middle aged woman standing next to the bed, very badly injured, possibly the victim of violence. There were bloody injuries on her face and what seemed to be a serious knife wound in her midriff, with more blood coming through her hospital gown-like housecoat or nightie. It didn’t look good, not at all. She reminded me of my mum. She said something like: “I need some help” or “Please help me” and I got a fright to be thus awoken by a very brief snap your fingers kind of dream. Calming down after this wasn’t easy but I was able to sort myself out and continued the night fairly well, finally striding into the day quite rested.

Laetitia listened with interest. About fifteen minutes later she said to me: “Would it sound too weird to say that might not have been a dream?” We have discussed the possibility of ghosts in this house you see, and something about the way I described the woman seemed to tally with previous presences I wasn’t aware of.

Not weird perhaps, so much as genuinely freaky. To say I was feeling scared now would be a bit juvenile. But things seem different in here somehow.

Published in: on July 6, 2010 at 8:10 pm  Leave a Comment  

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