Tuesday, 11 August 2020


I am on a strange adventure for which William Hartnell (the first Doctor Who) has been momentarily revived from his death (at which point he seems to be bent over, folded at the waist in some sort of ongoing stasis). He's dressed very much like his incarnation of Doctor Who, with a (furry?) fez, a black jacket and checked trousers. Physically he sports a white goatee beard, his hair longer and more lank than on television while facially he more resembles the actor John Hurt. However, in spite of all this Doctor Who-ish imagery it is William Hartnell – as at one point I try to impress him by mentioning an obscure film, 'The Cursed Devil', even though I am thinking of 'Shout At The Devil', wanting to ask about his experience of working with Lee Marvin*. His assistant for this “adventure” is the head of a young woman (no body or anything), her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face full and friendly. I converse with this head much more – at times she is perched atop a book and, towards the end, I am even aware in the slight change in the flecked grey carpet flooring of Hartnell's flat/TARDIS, assuming it allows the body of the actress to be hidden to allow her to perform her role. The exact nature of our adventure is unclear, though I do recall a sadness as Hartnell, his assistant sat on the carpet being cheerily practical as always, returns to his flat/TARDIS and thus prepares for his renewed death/stasis- 

*[In waking reality Hartnell had passed away prior to the filming of 'Shout At The Devil', nor was he ever in any way associated with a role in it.] 

Thereafter, myself and my former top floor neighbour, Cee, and another young woman – almost the assistant as a full person? - seem tasked with repairing a boiler condenser, first in Cee's flat and then in my own property (which I have very recently sold). This strange process seems to involve me weaving my way through a network of tight pipework and then – as the scene changes to a close diagrammatic cutaway through the mechanics of the repair, the joining of a pipe from the boiler to the condensing pipe – lying on my back and screwing on the necessary fitting. I do/have done this already in Cee's flat, reliving the moment in preparation for tackling my own place? I am quite confident about undertaking this task in my own flat – the three of us are crossing the street towards it – although somewhat wary of there being any potential leakage/damage when working above the ceiling (where the fault is located) prior to the handover. (Are we?) coming downstairs from Cee's flat and there is a blue liquid spilled in the stairwell. As we are walking across the street to my flat not only am I hit by a sudden weary melancholy, but also a stark realisation of that sensation as such. It is at this point that the other young woman asks me about my keys. As it's the day before the new owner takes possession I say it's fine as I popped them all through the letterbox.... I am gripped by a sudden fear – how do I get in? Didn't I drop a set to the building's Factor?, asks the young woman. I am confused. Should I see my old neighbour from across the hall (who now seems to be living above me)? I am troubled by visions of having to kick down the front door, of having to pay for the repair just as the new owner – distraught at the damage – is on the verge of moving in-

No comments:

Post a Comment