Last night

I didn’t sleep so good. Sleep so good I didn’t.

I nightmared that a hat-genteel Lady Whitegloves upturned upon the threshold step of the House of Ayres.
Stepstanding, she smile-asked for roof donations for the parish steeple-house.
Ayres, bristle-bearding, foot blocked the door and weight shifted his shoulder, a buttress doubled against feeble charity.

“Mr Ayres, so nice to meet you at last.” she implied. “Mrs Ayres around? I’m collecting for the Kirk roof. It’s been struck fourteen times by lightning, and once by blue ice…” she over-shoulder-peer-begged.

“I’m an atheist, thanks,” Ayres refuse-smirked. “Anyway, by the sounds of it, your god must think you’re doing something wrong.” he trap-fell.

“How unfortunate, I have you down for ten pounds. If there is no God as you say, then you must be as wrong as if there is a God.“ She paradoxed, shut-snapping the trap.

“A tenner? Givvus a half and half and I’ll make it twenty.”

I hot wet sweat woke.
“It was a dream” I mantra’d, all the 36 miles to Dundee.
I have not worked this day.
No change there then.