Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Sorry again for the lack of posties this week.   The Holiday Season, with its series of dinners, parties, and concerts, is now in high gear and what little time ol’ Robbo has to himself to play in Pixal Land has been that much more diminished.

Nevertheless, I’ve got another one of my patented dreams to relate to those two or three who still gather together here over the decanter.

Actually, I had a whole series of interlocking dreams last night.  I don’t remember anything of most of them (except for one that involved Mrs. R and is none of your biznay), but I retain the impression that they all flowed together somehow.

I do remember the last one, however.  In it, I found myself in an ISIS boot camp.

I was dressed in Middle Eastern robes and was one of a great many men lying prone on prayer rugs out in a desert.  A loudspeaker was blaring something in Arabic (I thought it was the Koran) and a number of bully-boys in masks and fatigues strolled about among us doing the sorts of things that bully-boys do to newbies.

I couldn’t imagine what on earth I was doing there but figured I’d best just lay low until I could sort things out.

Ol’ Robbo wears a chain with a crucifix and medals of Our Lady and his patron saints, a gift from my sponsor when I swam the Tiber.  In my dream, as I shifted slightly it made a distinct clinking sound.  (I don’t usually wear it to bed but forgot to take it off last evening, so I may really have heard it.)  Suddenly it dawned on me that if one of the bully-boys was to discover the chain, things would get ugly in a hurry.

And ol’ Robbo was sore afraid.

However, the last part of the dream I remember was not so much concerned with being caught out then and there, but rayther with trying to decide whether it would be better to clear off as soon as a means of escape presented itself or to stay in as a plant so that I could gather intelligence for the Good Guys.

And then, as they say, I woke up.

Note to self:  No more onion rings at dinner.