Entry for May 22, 2007

The Couch Potato and I were at the Richard Herring gig last night and we had a heartily good time. I managed to behave myself this time following my embarrassing incident with Richard. I thought he was looking at me a bit directly during some of the routine. The look said "I know you, and I have a gun. Stay away creepy man."
However Richard - what the hell Richy - my pal Rich - was on top form, and his riff on his latent wish to place his penis in Jesus' stigmata (provided it was consensual) challenged even the Couch Potato for sheer defiance of political correctness.
Unfortunately Richard did not come back with us, so I had to sleep alone. As I am approaching forty I no longer dream of semi naked women in lifts or girls in tight fitting blouses as I once did. You might think that, as I near my midlife crisis, my dreams would be about Porsches and speedboats and other thinly veiled symbols of power and sexual potency.
But no. Last night I dreamed of my radishes. It wasn't even an exciting dream where the radishes grew to enormous proportions, heaved themselves out of the earth and marched down the M1 towards the houses of parliament in some radishy coup de tat.
No. My radish dream was much more prosaic. I was inspecting the sprouting little plants, and fretting about the correct ones to take out during the important thinning out process. I was getting quite worried about it in my dream. I have clearly passed straight over the midlife crisis dream straight to the sad-old-man-who-dreams-of-vegetables dreams. My life is diminishing by the hour.
How did I become a man who dreams of radishes?