Greetings, my fellow port swillers!  Ol’ Robbo had rayther a strange dream last night.

In this dream, I was standing in an idealized English country railway station, seeking to buy a train ticket.  The station was full of people who, uncharacteristically for the English, would not queue up but instead kept trying to mob the ticket counter.  Every now and again, an official would come out from behind the counter and shoo them back into line.

In any event, I eventually found myself facing the ticket gel.  I wanted to buy a ticket for a town in Wales, but the name was so full of L’s and Y’s and C’s that I couldn’t possibly pronounce it.  Therefore, I handed the gel an itinerary I was carrying and said, “Please send me there.  I don’t know how to say it.”  She laughed and gave me my ticket, although she first started teasing me about my Amex card because the register was having a hard time reading it.  (This is based on real life, btw – my Amex does have problems getting itself read.)

It seems that the reason I wanted to go to this town in Wales was to attend some kind of family “function.”  To this end, I was carrying a very large and cumbersome binder (full of activity schedules and brochures, I think) together with several bouquets of flowers, which I kept dropping.

After I got out of the ticket office, I found myself on a garden path which, I supposed, led to the platform.  As I walked along the path, I passed two people sitting in wicker chairs and discussing international events.  I recognized one of them as the actor Joss Ackland in his role as the Soviet ambassador in The Hunt For Red October.  Go figure.

Eventually, I began to suspect that I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because it occurred to me that the platform should have been right next to the ticket office.  I was just about to turn around when a new thought flashed into my mind: “Hey, you dope! What about your luggage? You forgot to pack!”

With that, I woke up.

Amateur forensic psychologists may make of this what they will.