At 7 am the next day, his mother found him, Beano in hand, lamp still on, its feeble light overridden by the sun’s morning rays, fast asleep. She woke him with difficulty, shaking him a little as she normally had to. He seemed a little taken aback at being woken, but again, this was very normal for a schoolboy on a weekday morning. But Alfred’s morning was far from normal; he was still very much perturbed by his nightmare, and all throughout the day, he felt slightly uneasy. It was ‘plaguing’ him – a phrase which he liked because he’d recently learnt about the Black Death in history class. He could be chatting with his friends between lessons, or running about the playground chasing a tatty football, when suddenly it would hit him again – a sinking remembrance of the indescribable fear he had felt. Each time he remembered, he had a funny, queasy sensation in his tummy.
In science, he put his hand up and asked Mr Geoffries a question. “Sir,” he postulated, rather timorously, “Sir, is it possible to swim in oil?” Mr Geoffries, who was trying to teach them how magnets worked, looked a little stumped. As is the case with many primary school teachers, he had, in fact, done a degree in English Literature, and had not counted on five long years spent teaching 10 year olds how to make circuits and why they had shadows on top of times tables and Biff-Chip-and-Kipper. But the job demanded it, and besides, it paid well enough and he like the holidays. It meant he could spend time focussing on his many projects, which currently included playing bass in a Led Zeppelin tribute band and collecting Star Wars memorabilia. “Well,” he attempted, “I suppose you could, although I don’t think you’d float half as well as you did in water. Your body’s made of mostly water and that sinks in oil, so I think you’d sink. Yes, you’d sink.” Pleased with himself, he turned back to the board, and, seeing once more his feeble chalk drawing at a horseshoe-magnet, felt all his new-found self-satisfaction fizzle out.
Alfred, too, felt far from satisfied with the response. If it hadn’t been oil that he was swimming in, in that dream, then it must of (must have, Alfred, must have! Does Mr Geoffries teach you nothing? No, I imagine not) it must have been water. And if he wasn’t swimming properly in water, albeit dream water, he have forgotten how to swim. Maybe he should start having lessons again, so next time he can escape that horrid old woman?
Then there was the matter of the weak punches which did no more damage than had he been battering her with a dandelion. He must be a real weakling, he thought with dismay, if he can’t even hit an old lady.
No, Alfred, this is not, in fact, how dreams work, my poor misguided darling. But there’s no telling him, especially if you’re just a lowly omniscient narrator like myself. I just tell the story. Anyway, whilst I was digressing, I neglected to mention that Alfred is currently walking up to Eric Mansfield, a 7 stone, 5 foot tall 11 year old, with a clenched fist. I think he’s going to punch him. Oh, mercy, he did. Silly Alfred. Silly, silly Alfred.
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