My dreams are often mad, but usually in a pedestrian way that I manage to forget by the time I reach a keyboard. Tonight, however, I found myself telling a Mossad assassin that he would not reach the Commissioner tonight as he was even now on a train to Istanbul. Strangely, I was aware that this would stall the plot since mobile phones had not yet been invented, but proceeded anyway.
In any case, I’m not sure why this conversation was taking place on a housing estate in Shropshire, but I’m sure that Childers or Buchan would not have squandered this opportunity to play a part in the Great Game, on the Big Stage. After all, their authoring opportunities were largely restricted to endeavouring to avoid massive ‘conventional’ conflict across Eurasian borders. If I were to pursue this them in (probably virtual) print this morning, it would probably turn out that the story presaged the last days of the human race. Perhaps all stories do, at this point.
In any case, my progress towards a rational denouement was impeded by my pre-senile bladder, which woke me in order to send me to the bathroom. However lively my dream life may become, it seems that authoring an adventure novel would be an over-ambitious late addition to my bucket list.