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Haunted By a Dream

I woke up bathed in sweat and screaming overnight - filled with an impending sense of utter dread. In fact I sat up so fast and yelled so loudly that my false teeth unstuck themselves from the old gums and flew across the room.

Usually, it's not a great drama - I go and wash them immediately - but at 3am I figured what-the-hang and just popped them back in. That was not a good thing to do as this morning I discovered they had landed in the kitty litter. Nevermind, it happens.

Anyway, as I was cleaning nutty bits out of the old plastic chompers I tried to remember what had scared me so. Then it came back to me.

I was in a room filled with all sorts of people in weird and wonderful shapes. Tall, short, fat, skinny - but there was something not quite right. And it wasn't the ethereal music and bright lights either. They were reaching out and calling to me - a bad sign when you are over 100 and have got a dodgy ticker - saying why didn't people try to stop him.

Him? Who's him? I silently asked my ghostly wavers in the classic I'm-dreaming-so-I-can't-say-anything-but-they-understand-me-anyway state of dream consciousness.

"That dopey Italian git!" came the reply.

Who?

"Dr Severino Antinori the mad Italian gynaecologist who claimed a woman was pregnant with a cloned baby and nobody believed him."

And...

"Well she was and we are the results. Help us Grumpy."

What can I do (don't you hate it when dreams always go stop-start like this?) ... and who are you?

"We are the ghosts of clones-to-be, sentenced to life without souls or meaningful existence because we are only copies."

You poor guys, what can I do?

"Stop him ... by any means possible ... and destroy his laboratory."

Dear me, sounds like one of my James Bond dreams, although they usually sort of finish when Jane Seymour and Sophie Marceau and Denise Richards are slowly rubbing healing oils into my shoulders .... ( oops sorry, guys, different episode of the dream!).

Anyway, why should I help? What's so terrible about having no soul, politicians don't have.

"That's the point, Grumpy, we've all just been told what our jobs will be..."

And that is...?

At this the screams and wails drowned out the harps - "Save us, Grumpy, we're to be ... we're to be ... we're to be senior bank executives!"

Oh, my God, you poor devils. I'll have a quick shower and be on a plane to Italy. Now, where did I pack my all-action overnight bag...?

To Be Continued ...

If there is something that has really got up your nose, let Grumpy Old Coot know at grumpy@webwombat.com