I was at one of those dreadful “Team Building” working weekends away at a fancy hotel of the kind in which I would never willingly stay. (Or was it a “Personal Development” weekend? I don’t really know how to tell the difference. They seem to be exactly the same kind of torture.)
I was the first victim for this particular activity. I was on stage, supposed to be giving a presentation of some sort.
“I’m sorry, my mind has gone completely blank. I haven't got the foggiest idea what the brief for this event was, but I can spin you a yarn that I hope will suffice as an alternative. Bear with me if I have to stop and think for a moment at intervals to work out what comes next.”
This is the yarn that I spun. In the event it actually flowed more or less continuously, which meant no-one got a chance to interrupt, since I Had The Microphone.
“Olaf Thoroughgood runs a grocery shop. He sells carrots, celery, onions, tomatoes, lettuce and swedes. Especially swedes. As you probably realize, his father was from Yorkshire, and his mother was Swedish. What you might not have realized is that Olaf Thoroughgood is a rabbit.
“He’s a bit embarrassed about his name, and he lives under the name Peter. Peter McGregor.”
There was more. The dream went on and on, I think, but whether it did or not, I don’t remember it. I do remember waking up in a cold sweat, embarrassed at my performance.
As is often the case, the dream seemed to make perfect sense at the time, but the memory is of a rather tangled mess, which I’ve unscrambled a bit to make it sort of make sense. But most of the details are authentic dream stuff, in particular the name Olaf Thoroughgood.
I might use it as a pseudonym.