Driving and Parking

 Recently I have been dreaming about driving in traffic, probably because of a new focus in my waking hours on my Krunchie Cab project.

In one such dream, I was driving into town in a stream of traffic. I had arrived in town and wanted to park, but I was caught in the  stream of traffic and there was no place to park. I was in  town, but the stream of traffic would carry me through town and out of town, to God knows where.

Then I spotted an opportunity that suddenly presented itself: a broad footpath just beside me. I made an instant decision, indicated and pulled onto this broad footpath. There was just room for my little car here, in between a lamp post and a post box.

My wife and I got out of the car. We wanted to go walking along a lovely country lane that, in the dream, happened to be where Parnell Street is today, stretching from the O'Conell Street junction up to Capel Street. Of course, in reality today, this is a busy city street, crammed with traffic, but in the dream it was a country lane, bound on both sides by leafy hedges and trees. All we had to do was negotiate  our way on foot through the stream of traffic to get to the other side.

However, I hesitated. I looked back at the car. Was it all right where it was? Was it vulnerable to vandals or traffic wardens? I saw a man walking towards me who had been a colleague where I  worked 20 years ago.

"John," I said, "Do you think will my car be all right there."

"I am no expert on traffic matters," said John.

"I know," I said, "But I only want your opinion."

John looked at the car. It was well clear of the stream of traffic, and was no obstruction to anybody using the footpath.

"It looks fine  to me," he said.

But I still had doubts.

While I was looking, another car pulled out of the stream of traffic onto the footpath. But there was no room for it to pull clear of the traffic, and there it sat, half on the footpath and half in the way of the traffic. It caused the stream of traffic to bend and weave and blow angrily.

"Oh no," I thought, "Now the police will be called to solve the  traffic problem, and my car will be treated as a culprit the same as this car."

The dilemma remained unresolved.

I wake in the  morning to the sound of the radio, which we use as an alarm. Remarkably, in the news was a  report of a lobby group who were demanding that the law clamp down on people parking on footpaths.

Financial Consultant

 Yesterday, I heard a programme on radio advising the exploration of our own areas, with the aid of an old "six inch" map showing the old buildings and features, so it was no wonder that in my sleep I should find myself walking around Georgian Dublin observing all that was to be seen.

I entered a lovely Georgian street and noticed a grand building behind a fancy courtyard. I entered the building and found myself in a room that was a cross between a hotel foyer and a grand bank of the 19th century. There were comfortable seats all around the large room, shelves of books here and there, and more books disposed randomly around. 

"A reading room!" I guessed.

I sat down in a comfortable chair and took up a magazine from the nearby coffee table. The pages in the magazine were of a thick semi-glossy paper, so I surmised the magazine was one to be kept rather than read and thrown away. It was entitled "The Works of John Bonham." Now the wine I had with my dinner yesterday was labelled "Bonpas," (Cote du Rhone) so I guess this is where the name "Bonham" came from.

I had never heard of John Bonham, so hoped that glancing through the magazine would give me an idea of what his works were like. However, when I opened the magazine, I found a typed page pinned onto the magazine page. The typed page seemed to be a contract that John Bonham had signed with the Department of Arts and Culture. However, a lot of the typed content had been struck out, and different conditions, written in ink, written in instead.

I turned from page to page in the magazine, but all I could find was more and more one-page contracts signed by John Bonham.

"Ah," I said to myself, "It looks like the civil servant dealing with Bonham was given the task of signing up Bonham at all costs, no matter what changes had to be made to the contract to get him to sign."

A well-fed, prosperous-looking man came in the front door of the reading room, passed across the room into an inner room, calling "Mr Brown" as he entered. With that one of the gentlemen sitting in the  room got up and followed the prosperous man into the other room.

"Ah," I said to myself, "This is obviously a waiting room for a highly-paid medical consultant."

I no longer felt comfortable lounging there, so I put the magazine back on the table and made my way to the door. 

Two other gentlemen reached the door at the same time. I soon learned that their surnames were Harrington and Moody.

"So," said Harrington to me, "This is not for you?"

"No!" I replied dubiously.

"But, no doubt," said he, "You have some savings?"

"Well," I said, "You would hardly have reached my age without some little bit of cash in the bank."

"Perhaps you have a few thousand or so," he said.

"Maybe so and maybe not," I said, as I moved away from him.

As I left, I saw Moody advising Harrington. He brushed a bit of dust or debris from his shoulder and, apparently, advised him always to wear a clean shirt and keep his tie straight. Then he advised him to say to himself, "I'm the best; I'm the best;" then put a smile on his face and approach the next potential client with confidence.

"So," I thought, "It was not a medical practice. It was a stock-broker's or financial adviser's."

Harrington was there to pick up customers disillusioned with the firm. He saw me considering what the firm was offering (the magazine of contracts I had perused), apparently rejecting it, and leaving. He had hoped to pick me up as a client, lure my savings from me to invest on my behalf.

Well, yesterday also saw the news about Davy Stockbrokers being fined by the Central Bank, so my devious subconscious mind was bringing all the news into personal perspective.