January 15: Some Kind of Dream, NyQuil, Realm of Dream

Ford Prefect is still working his Betelgeuse-alien magic on Mr. Prosser . . .

"So," continued Ford Prefect, "if you would just like to come over here and lie down . . ."

"What?" said Mr. Prosser.

"Ah, I'm sorry," said Ford, "perhaps I hadn't made myself fully clear.  Somebody's got to lie in front of the bulldozers, haven't they?  Or there won't be anything to stop them driving into Mr. Dent's house, will there?"

"What?" said Mr. Prosser again.

"It's very simple," said Ford, "my client, Mr. Dent, says that he will stop lying here in the mud on the sole condition that you come and take over from him."

"What are you talking about?" said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet.

"You want me," said Mr. Prosser, spelling out the new thought to himself, "to come and lie there . . ."

"Yes."

"In front of the bulldozer?"

"Yes."

"Instead of Mr. Dent."

"Yes."

"In the mud."

"In, as you say it, the mud."

As soon as Mr. Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders:  this was more like the world as he knew it.  He sighed.

"In return for which you will take Mr. Dent with you down to the pub?"

"That's it," said Ford.  "That's it exactly."

Mr. Prosser took a few nervous steps forward and stopped.

"Promise?"

"Promise," said Ford.  He turned to Arthur.

"Come on," he said to him, "get up and let the man lie down."

Arthur stood up, feeling as if he was in a dream.

Ford beckoned to Prosser, who sadly, awkwardly, sat down in the mud.  He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.  The mud folded itself round his bottom and his arms and oozed into his shoes.

Ford looking at him severely.

"And no sneaky knocking down Mr. Dent's house whilst he's away, alright?" he said.

"The mere thought," growled Mr. Prosser, "hadn't even begun to speculate," he continued, settling himself back, "about the merest possibility of crossing my mind."

So, Ford Prefect gets to take Arthur Dent to the pub for a drink.  Mr. Prosser is lying in the mud, thinking that his life is some kind of dream.  And Arthur Dent's house is safe from the bulldozers for the time being.  Everybody gets what they want.

This morning, I would have paid money to be able to just lie down in some mud and go back to sleep.  I was exhausted.  Plus, I think I'm coming down with some kind of cold.  I've been coughing all day.  I don't know if it's the result of flying in airplanes, breathing reconstituted air all Saturday.  It could be the cold weather.  Or, maybe, just ten days of warmth and sun and exercise and little sleep.  Whatever the cause, I will be taking a bottle of NyQuil to bed with me tonight.

I did work today, 6 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.  Then I walked down to the cemetery with one of my best friends to pay my sister a visit.  Haven't done that since Christmas Eve.  Her stone was crusted with snow.  Had to brush and scrape it off.  It was a fairly mild day, and the walk invigorated me.  It was the best I felt all day.

On my drive home, the tireds hit me again.  By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was ready for a nap.  Of course, I didn't take one.  Have too much to do this evening.  Lesson plan.  Quiz to prepare.  E-mails to send and answer.  Yes, Walt Disney World is quickly fading in the realm of dream for me, just the way Mr. Prosser thinks his life is a dream.  I found myself looking at the camera roll on my phone several times today, just to remind myself of the sun and palm trees.  To prove that it was real.

Two weeks ago, it was New Year's Day.  I was packing my suitcase.  One week ago, I was at EPCOT Center, eating at an Italian restaurant in the World Showcase, waiting for the fireworks/laser show to begin.  Four days ago, it was the Rivers of Light show at the Animal Kingdom.

Tonight, Saint Marty is dreaming about a box of Wheat Thins and bottle of Easy Cheese that's in his kitchen cupboard.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.