I was in bed with my brother, my old bed of my years of childhood. This was fine until my second brother came into the bed. The bed was big enough when we were boys, but now that we are adults, it is rather crowded. Not only crowded, but too warm to sleep. I wondered lazily if I should get out and sleep on the floor, where it would be cooler.
I lazily got out of the bed and surveyed the floor. There was plenty of space on the floor, at the foot of be bed, but it was piled with books and files and copy-books and reams of paper. I decided that, rather than try and clear a space, I would lie on top of the lot. This proved quite comfortable. I lay half on my front and half on my side. My shoulder dipped into a hollow in the pile of papers and my upper arm and leg were each supported by a little mound of books. However, my head was on a rather hard support.
I wondered if I should rise and take a pillow from the bed. Just then one of my brothers stirred and mumbled, "All Right?" I said, "I need my pillow," but he had turned over and gone back to sleep. I noticed that the pillow had been thrown down to the bottom of the bed. I could reach up my arm and grab it without rising. I did this, put the pillow under my head; and drifted into a dream.
In the dream my neighbour, Emmet, came across to my house with a proposal. He wanted us to play a tune he had dedicated to his grand-daughter. He called the tune "To my beautiful granddaughter." I suggested he should name the granddaughter in the title: "To my beautiful granddaughter, Emily," and he agreed. (Emily is a name proposed by the dream, not the name of an actual granddaughter.
He gave me a copy of the sheet music for the tune. I was to play on the tin whistle, and Emmet would play the Jews' Harp. I played the first bar, and it was very nice. There were no notes in the second bar, and I stopped. Emmet kept going on the Jews' Harp. Then he stopped and said, "You come in there." But I said, "There is nothing there in my copy. You better get me a proper copy." Then I said "It's very nice -- it's simple." Then, in case he might take "Simple" as a criticism, I said, "Simple is good."
The tune was actually my tune, "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose," in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor (author of the poem of that title), who died almost a year ago.
As I said "Simple is good," I glanced up at the audience, for we were in a little theatre. There was only one person in the audience, Paschal Donohoe, the Minister for Finance. When he heard me saying "Simple is Good," he smiled and nodded.
Emmet went home to print out another copy of the sheet music, and I drifted back to sleep.
Then I heard the handle of the bedroom door turning. I lay quiet and alert. Somebody came quietly into the room and went over to my side of the bed. (I was lying on the floor still). Then I heard some pages turning. The intruder was rifling through my writings. I decided to confront him.
I uttered a shout, "Hoi," and jolted myself, as one would do if awakening from sleep. I woke up and found that I was not on the floor on a pile of books, nor in bed with my brothers, nor confronting an intruder, but in my normal sleeping place beside my wife. It was a bit warm all right.
