Incidentally, a relative of ours once had such a vivid dream about my wife having an affair with said Saturday Night Feverist. The dream was so convincing that he actually believed that it had taken place. It must be explained that he was high on post-operatonal drugs and wasn’t thinking straight; Travolta lives on the west coast of America and not in Northern England.
The Bee Gees
We were returning home from Manchester Airport yesterday morning. It was raining. It was foggy. It was Greater Manchester followed by West Yorkshire; it was raining and cold, wet and bleak, dark and empty satanic mills, green and damp sheep-studded fields and hills.
“I wouldn’t want to be a sheep here,” our youngest said.
“I wouldn’t want to live here,” the wife added.
“Some people would,” I added some more.
“Nobody would,” my wife countered.
“Some people would,” I replied.
“Look, nobody would,” she threw back. It was a warning that I ignored.
“Some people would.”
“Are you trying to get me angry?
She ought to have said ‘get my goat’ because that would have added to the wordplay – she didn’t.
“I was just saying that some people, perhaps like me, probably would.”
It was weak and meagre, but I was withdrawing from conflict, veritably…
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