I sometimes have the strangest of dreams. Just last night I woke up quite startled, something slipping into my head quite unexpectedly.
It’s not unusual for me to have the occasional nightmare. I’ve even had dreams of playing the role in an unusual depiction of the death of renowned medieval crossdresser, Joan of Arc. That one was very odd. It followed an evening where I’d been out and watched an ice skating spectacular, and I later dreamed I was playing the lead in a dramatic presentation of the story of Joan, performed on ice. Needless to say the story had something of a surprise ending.
Last nights dream may have been the result of my reading some of the history of Marie Antoinette. She is widely quoted as having said, “Let them eat cake,” when told of the peasants plight in revolutionary France.
It turns out that she never said that. Instead it was written some twenty years prior to the revolution by well known French cuck Jean-Jaques Rousseau. You can read about it here. The words were attributed to Marie, along with a lot of sexually deviant behaviour (most enjoyable) that never actually occurred. This was politically motivated and provided a suitable excuse to whip her head off, thus putting paid to the problem of crowned heads wandering about the place after their revolution, instead of ending up in the basket along with all the trouble makers the French revolutionaries wanted to be rid of. Some of the fat bastards taking flights to space should take note.
Perhaps reading about this before I slid into sleep primed me for the disturbing dream, from which I woke with a start. My dachshund, Hannibal, was curled up in his basket beside my bed sleeping soundly at the time. I had to get up and pull on a kimono and make restoring cup of tea before finally feeling calm and getting back to sleep again. I did however take time to note the dream, and so I will share the entry I made in my journal, a pink volume by my bed with a picture of a unicorn on the cover.
I hope you enjoy sweeter dreams.
It was a cold dawn, the early light glistening on the cobbles of the Paris streets. A somber crowd had gathered in the square, where a guillotine stood.
Through the wreaths of mist a cart, pulled by two broken down horses clattered to a halt. And there she was, her hands bound behind her back. This wasn’t a princess, but someone of meagre birth. She stood proudly, but was manhandled down some rickety steps and led to the sinister looking device in the center of the square. Her little dog, Sasha, followed loyal to the very end.
The crowd fell silent as the metallic rasp of the blade being raised reached their ears. All eyes were on the woman, as she was pushed into place, a hard wooden yoke closing about her neck.
She knelt with dignity, silence descending over the crowd in anticipation of what was to follow. Then the unmistakable sound of the blade descending and suddenly it was all over. Until someone said, “Fetch” and that was when the wheels really came off.
Goodnight.
Fiona.
