I am planning a trip to Thailand. My English friends have called with a request to break the JFK-Bangkok flight with a JFK-Heathrow landing. I love them all, but unfortunately for the Limeys I missed my children too much to deviate from my flight plans, although last night a dream transported my unconsciousness wish to visit my London friends.
We meet in a pub on Westbourne Grove. Drinks were on me. The crowd was enormous. Every one of my English friends was at the bar and several ex-girlfriends vied for my attention. No one had aged a day from the last century. The room overreached capacity and I escaped before the bartender could present the bill. The total had to be in the thousands, for the British can really drink when it's on someone else's cuff, then again so can most drinkers.
I wandered through a nearby park to a car dealer selling souped-up 70s Toyota for a half-million pounds each. The dealer said no car was faster and a single lap around the racing track cost over $500. I thanked him from the offer and stepped into the ether of my alter-ego.
England was certainly expensive these days.
Even in my dreams
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