Dreams and dishcloths

I'm in a dentists waiting room, it's packed. He's running three hours late.

I go to the reception and ask to make an appointment for another, quieter day. Explain that there's standing room only in the ante room, three people on a sofa in the surgery and two going through the relaxation process before they join them there.

"No! He only agreed to see you at this time!"

I leave, ride my bike away from the Canning Town high street of my youth and into the pub. It's a birthday celebration, everyone is doing a turn on stage. I drink and watch songs, speeches, mimes, photo displays, dances made up by children. The birthday couple I'm sitting with tell me it's my turn but I don't know them so I go to the toilet to look for my bike. It's not there so I search the park that the pub is in. It's been stolen.

I go home to get another bike so I can go back to the dentist. The bikes are kept in the front room, a proper front room that should only be used for visitors so I tidy the chains and locks and bags full of puncture repair kits before cycling off to the receptionist that speaks like acid. I go via the shopping centre where I try without success to find something to spend a gift voucher on.

The reception is now in the park, near the pub that I don't want to return to because I don't know what to perform. It's dark, I get past the pub unnoticed, find my bike in the now circular room and sit on it waiting for the woman behind the counter to tell me the dentist will see me now, even though I'm not in pain anymore. She doesn't, she just glares at me.

Waking up from that dream I find myself in a shaky state. Gently I potter round the house doing mindless tasks until I catch myself fixating on why I bought pink designer dishcloths with pretty flowers on when essentially all they do is wipe up grease and dirt.

I think this is why I drink. My mind scares me when I'm sober.