They say that your dreams can tell you quite a bit about yourself, but I don’t put a lot of trust in them myself.

On the other hand, the way things have been carrying on of late I don’t trust reality much any more either.

I wouldn’t trust it as far as I could throw it.

Take, for instance, this exercise book I’m writing in––the one that’s in your hands right now.

It’s solid. It’s real. You could throw it in the air, swat a bug with it, or use it to stop your desk rocking.

The exercise book is real, but is the story I’m writing as solid as the exercise book or will it just sift between your fingers like the fine sand of Fleetwood beach?

It’s problematic. That’s for sure.

What I really want to do is to separate all the memories, one by one, and place them in neat piles. On the right the rock-solid facts, and on the left, the sandier ones. On the right the things I’m certain happened, and on the left the things I can’t be sure about. I have to do this before the storm comes back and blows the memories around the room like leaves, because if they get muddled one more time they’ll be muddled for ever.