The CuriousPages Sketchbook

Falling down the stairs

Last night, I had two dreams that I can remember. Both seemed to be long ‘narrative’ dreams. In one, I was at a house, which must have been some sort of variation on the last family house, though it was not quite that one; it had too much of an air or normality about it. I was amid a group of people who were all quite merry on drink. We were about to depart, when my drunken mother took it into her head to dance up the stairs and start making amorous advances at my father, who was already at the top of the stairs, have disowned himself from any merriment. She clung onto him and after a momentary struggle she can tumbling down the stairs. Somehow I managed to catch her in my arms. She looked at her hand and said, ‘I’ve broken my finger again.’

I said, ‘How many times have you broken them?’

She said, ‘I’ll fix it myself; I always do.’ And she crunched it back into place. I didn’t feel her finger, though I imagined myself feeling the bone to test to see if it was broken (I think this bit of imagining might have happened in my mind after I woke up).

There was never any physical affection between my parents, nor indeed any affection of any sort in that household. He died about fifteen years ago, or more, and I remember my mother making a passing comment, about five or ten years before that, that my father had not touched her for twenty years.

I remember a single incident from childhood, when I must have been about eight or nine. My mother danced into the living room and sat on my father’s lap. He pushed her off and told her not to be so stupid.

There was nothing normal about that household.


6 April 2008



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