by Anglerphobe » Mon Mar 19, 2018 9:25 pm
I dreamed, semi-lucidly, that the queen had died. A program I was watching (which seemed real at the time but I'm sure doesn't exist) was interrupted by breaking news. In dreamland, I was sure that this abrupt break from the broadcast schedule would only happen in extreme circumstances. "Oh shit" I said "the queen must have died." Of course, she had.
The coverage was presented by a sombre BBC broadcast team dressed all in black, fronted by David Dimbleby with a series of pundits like they have on election nights. In a touch of what I now recognise as frightening realism, there was a short feature report on it which was disgustingly sentimental, repeated ad nauseam between segments of discussion. They also did a list of tweets honouring her ex-majesty, including one from President Trump which my dream self considered incredibly sanctimonious, though I can't remember it now.
When roving reporters started interviewing people on the streets for their reactions, I realised that I recognised some of the streets one of them was on as the town where my parents live. I immediately hoped that my mum wouldn't be one of the people interviewed, and - just as immediately - there she was. I tried to call her to dissuade her from televising her grief to the nation, and she threw her phone out of the frame as it rang. I can't remember the content of her interview now, but I do know it was so unbearable that I woke up, unable to face it.
This feels like some sort of horrible prophetic vision, except I won't get Alt+F4 my way out of it when it happens in real life.
"Tusser, they tell me, when thou wert alive,
Thou, teaching thrift, thyselfe couldst never thrive.
So, like the whetstone, many men are wont
To sharpen others, when themselves are blunt."
Anyone who has any kind of opinion fucking disgusts me.