To hear other people's dreams is usually killingly dull. And my own are the same to others, I know. As a child I had extraordinarily vivid dreams, in terrifying technicolour. Other people's dream stories seemed horribly pedestrian in comparison to mine, so full as they were of whirling planets and tennis courts being strafed. I hardly ever dreamed about people and I still don't. Last night I had a dream that is lingering in my brain. I wish I could recapture it fully but its vividness is seeping away. I've never had a dream like it. I suppose my brain is just clearing out the files and putting them in order for future reference but it seems that it was more than that.  I can only describe it as a wall of words, with some Latin, a little reference to France and a question on a pendant.

Something quite exciting happened today. When I say exciting I think I probably mean something else entirely but that will do for now. But this thing of which I speak (write, whatever) has to do with my front door. This door (wooden, painted blue and white, facing west) did, in the way that depraved inanimate objects (or doors, anyway) can do, wedge itself firmly shut and then refused all entreaties to unbudge. It was encouraged to behave in this way by the house gyrating on its foundations under other, possibly malign, influences. (It's a regular concatenation of circumstances that goes back to the beginning of time. I can't cover it all here). But anyway, to cut a long story a little shorter, the movement of the house didn't marry well with the position of the door and it was shut very firmly. That was in February.
But today two fellows (not lads as I expected) turned up and expended some energy and coaxed (kicked) the door out of its sullen and uncooperative mood, prettied it up with a new lock and a new handle (another story) and now it opens again. Hey presto! I just have to remind myself. I've got out of the habit of going that way.