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I must have fallen back to sleep after reading the text message from my best mate on Saturday morning, because the next thing I knew it was almost afternoon. Serve myself right for staying up past midnight watching the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics (same time zone as Beijing). I wish I lived in Perth. Still, it's a quadrennial event, and sacrifices just have to be made.

Anyway, the text from my best mate was an apology: he won't be able to attend my birthday celebrations NEXT weekend. One by one, my five closest friends in the world have pulled out. Yeah, OK, a couple of them are abroad, they're excused. If they post to my Wall on Facebook, that's enough. It's not like 26 is anything special. I'm disappointed that this is the fourth time in the last 6 months we've arranged to meet and one or more of (the five of) us has had to postpone.

* * *

I made the recent observation that my nights have been without dreams. That's now changed. There were two dreams I have had in recent days that I really would like to discuss (explanations are something else). I've made some notes on the dreams, and I'll post them to see what you guys think later in the week.

The first noteworthy dream was Saturday morning. I know this because I had it AFTER the text. Eight-year-old me is standing outside the 'new' post office of my childhood home town, alone. I've grazed my knee and blood trickles down my shin. Suddenly the viewing angle changes to across the street, and to twenty-five-year-old me.

The girl known to LPSG as "Possibility #1" (in her 22-year-old form) emerges from the post office with her arms laden. She spots the 8-year-old me, and tends to my wound. She just happens to have a couple of bandaids in her pocket. She takes me by the hand and drives me to my childhood home. Well, it IS my childhood home, but it's the only house for MILES (which is not the reality)

It's the next morning. I'm still 8, and I'm yabbering inanely about "Possibility #1", as a child might when they have a favoured older cousin. The 8-year-old me is pestering the 25-year-old me if we can see "Possibility #1" again. I explain that it's probably not a good idea, as she will be at work (which just happens to be the perspective I had of the previous day's scene).

Eight-year-old me, then pipes up. "So invite her out for lunch."

"And you too, I suppose?"

The older me relents with a misgiving smile Mike Brady would have been proud of.

Then, outside the window, something caught my eye. I felt compelled to leave. Upon further investigation, "something" turned out to be "someone". We'll call them 'Nemo'.

'Nemo' is one of the strange, faceless people I sometimes dream of, and when I do, the face is the only thing obscured. A small, manicured, hand with slightly stubby fingers slips into and enmeshes with mine. Crowded House's "Mean to Me" plays in the background. Dainty feet in platform thongs extend from toes painted in that purple-so-dark-it's-almost-black. The shoes add to 'Nemo's' height, but I'm guessing 5'7". Faded blue denim jeans hang below a black halter-neck top.

The voice isn't what I expect: an English accent, female, a London accent with a slightly chav intonantion. "She" only speaks three words: two, zero, eight. She repeats. It becomes a mantra.

Now, I'm not going to explain the significance of 208. Use your imagination.

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