Another

Last night's weird dream:

I was a maths teacher, I think, and married to my old boss's wife because he'd died. That was odd in itself. I had this old computer, this Acorn Archimedes that went everywhere with me. I didn't carry it around, but it just appeared wherever I was. It was always there.

I know that I was writing some book about maths, but my awake brain doesn't understand what about. Then my wife changed, and the house looked nicer because my father in law was a furniture maker. 

But the recurring bit, the bizarre bit, was that I was rally anal, really really OCD about eating. Every day we ate at exactly six minutes past five. Every day. And every day we ate what both my wives called a Greek pie, which apparently was at my insistence. But the pie wasn't the usual pastry topped thing. It was a cylinder of pastry with the filling running through it a stick of rock. But not just blobbed in the middle, the filling was shaped like a little picture of a table. We had a slice each and seemed to enjoy it. Imagine the calories in that. 

Mysterious Gentleman

I keep bumping into this man who says his name is Richard Peterson and used to work in East London.

Irish minds

I dreamt I was in Dublin. On O'Connell Street. I crossed the Liffey and wandered into a shop. They took my money, but the change they gave me wasn't money. It was pieces of plastic. Small pieces of broken old printer. One bore the scratched out name Canon. They were coin sized, and had monetary values marked on them. I saw one man pay with a camera lens. Most peculiar.