Lost in London

Dreamt that I was hopelessly lost in London, attempting to return home, to Boston.

I stopped at a street vendor’s cart and asked for directions to Heathrow. A doughy, grey faced, blob of a woman with a gap toothed smile that looked prettier on the shark she’d stolen it from, sketched out some byzantine path and then demanded payment for her cheerful service.

In this wretched nightmare I was passive as a cowed bunny and paid the fee. Thinking I had a way out of paying her extortionist charge though, I handed over a one euro coin. I'd just arrived from Rotterdam, didn't have pounds and figured she'd pass. Nope, no joy, no win. She happily accepted the currency.

I followed this predatory, moth-eaten virago’s directions and ended up, not at the airport but at a beggar’s hopelessly downtrodden, filthy shack. Yup, she'd given me the WRONG directions (bit of a gag, a lark, eh?) and profited on it too.

Things were looking more and more like a vision out of Bruegel the Elder’s burning imagination.

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
― William Shakespeare, The Tempest

 All this came after a big meeting at my workplace — a melange of past, nasty gigs — where the owners announced they’d sold the joint and the majority of us would be laid off. One of the higher ups was trying to talk me into staying on even though I’d already accepted another job and given notice.

Though I was happy to have a fall back position already in place, I felt badly for my now unemployed friends but maybe more for those staying on in what proved to be utter, mind-bendingly atrocious chaos.

Why do my dozing horror shows always resemble the paintings of Bosch and Bruegel, hmmmm?

Here, lets have a little palate cleanser and we'll reboot the morning. K?