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Dreaming - The view of an optimistic, blonde hippy!

Dreams are funny things...
Some people dream of Money.
Some people dream of Family.
Some people dream of Love. Me? I dream of gettin to Forks to meet my friends in one piece.
I doubt it will happen. Catkin's view of Charmingal's Dreaming.


7. Chapter 7 - No thanks, I dont want any priest with my toastless beans...

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“Delia! Turn the Goddamn alarm clock off before you wake Tash!”



I threw my thin hotel duvet off myself and sat up. It was dark. The curtains were still drawn. Delia peeked out from under her covers. Grabbing the alarm clock I stomped over to the window. Opening the filth covered pane I flung the still buzzing clock over the neighbours balcony. I closed the window, amazed that Tasha was still asleep. And snoring slightly. She has been on her back all night…

I sighed and walked over to where Delia was hiding under the sheets. “D?”

I shook her a little, but she burrowed further under the cover. “Sorry Delia. I’m not a morning peep. I’m like this ‘till about 10am at least. Short temper…”

She shuffled slightly, possibly shrugging.

I changed tactic. “Breakfast?” She shot out of bed and into the bathroom to change. Grinning I grabbed some crumpled clothes off the floor and shoved yesterdays empty doughnut packet into the bin. I paused. What was I doing? Cleaning? That’s the utmost Anti-Catkin behaviour I could think of. It’s so… Tolley-ish. I shuddered.


“Another personality to add to my on growing list of multi…” I trailed off as I spotted Tasha’s crumpled socks and pick them up and place them into her open suitcase (Which I then zip up). I jump as Tasha’s right hand slips out of her rope loop and smacks me in the face. I contemplate waking her up and start untying her other hand until she suddenly giggles franticly, then snorts and falls into a deeper slumber.

Maybe not…


“Beans?” Delia looks around disappointedly. On the hotplates there was an array of food. There was some sort of breakfast sandwich, some kind of burrito, ‘oatmeal’ and a humongous tureen of baked beans.

“This place is stereotype central.” I murmured.

Standing in the line which included two guys in full cowboy mode (Boots and Hats included… they even had spurs…) and a lady with long plaits, chequered top and denim short shorts, Delia pouts. “Beans.” She repeats. I tilt my head to the left in a puzzled way.

“Yes… beans. What about the beans?” She points to the little tubs of butter. “Still not getting you D.”

She shakes her head. “There’s no toast” She mutters darkly. Suppressing a laugh I hug her until she starts to giggle. We’re suddenly howling with laughter, and served food accompanied with free strange looks. That’s a point. How are we paying for this…

Something I’ll have to ask Tash later. I suddenly think of Tasha strapped to the bed wondering where we’ve gone and come over with a fit of giggles. Delia led me to a small table with a single flower in a vase and a red chequered table cloth. Stereotyped as it was, is was quite quaint. Sitting down, I switch my knife and fork around. Even though I’m right handed, I use my cutlery left handed.

A priest sitting one table away from us gasps and points at us. Well… me. He slowly stands up and speaks in a deep, low voice, “You be usin’ those like a south paw! That there’s a sign of the Devil!” I drop my knife to the floor and also stand up. He continued, “You have been exposed! We must kill the Devil within this child!” He spat on the floor.

“Delia! Help!” I hissed. A little too loudly…

“That there light haired child be her accomplice! Let us cleanse their souls!”

“RUN!” Delia screamed. Our plates clattered to the floor. We darted for the door followed by the now screaming priest and the two cowboy fellas from the line. We race into the near empty street but manage to collide with a shopping cart full of fruit. As fruit rolls into the road and the vendor throws left over oranges at us, we head towards a old car on the other side of the street. Delia ran round and bundled into the passenger side. I paused at the drivers door.

“GET IN!” Delia yelled from inside the car.

“I cant…” I whispered.

“WHAT?” She bellowed. I glanced up the street to see the priest skidding about in the fruit mess. It probably would have been quite comical if not for our predicament. ”Come on Catkin!” She gasped as she pushed open the car door. I groaned. “I don’t drive Delia. I cant!”

”Well why not!?” She scrambled out the car frustrated.”

“I’ll explain later… I’ve just seen a possible escape route…”


“That was excellent Catkin!” Delia clapped her little mousey hands together. All scary priests and cowboy look-a-likes now far behind us, Delia was far more relaxed. Atop her hi-jacked pure white horse (A/N Which I believe they call greys… If anyone wants to spread some light on that, please email me or review… Thanks) Delia looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Apart from the fact she was wearing denim skinny jeans and her black top with the silver shiny butterflies on it.

“Delia… Have you ever taken riding lessons?” I tilted my head to the left and upset my balance so much that falling off my own chestnut dappled mare was becoming a danger. Re-adjusting myself I opened my mouth again when she cut across with “Why couldn’t you drive the car Catkin?”


A question I had been hoping to avoid. I halted my horse and clambered down. I lead the beautiful creature to the side of the road and let it wander into the connecting field. I contemplated leaving it there, when there was a gunshot and the animal fell to the ground. Delia clapped her hands to her mouth and had trouble not collapsing to the floor. Running over to her I let her rest her weight on me. Tears rolled down her face and a single sob escaped her chest. I led her over to a waiting oak tree and sat her down. She clenched her knees to her chest and buried her head. I gathered her horse from the road and tied it to the oak tree. It happily nibbled on some of the surrounding grass, not even remotely aware of it’s mate, now dead just a few feet away. This for a reason I couldn’t quite fathom, made me hate the horse. Didn’t it care? Did it have no feelings for its dead partner? I kicked the tree. And paused. What was I doing? I was getting angry because a simple minded horse showed no emotion. IT WAS A HORSE! Shaking my head I let myself slide down the tree trunk next to Delia. I slung an arm round the poor dear’s shoulders and let her weep for the now dead animal I had been riding on a few moments before.


Walking through the door, I’m almost shot down by Tasha’s ‘death glare’. I cautiously advance into the room.

“Well if your going to look like you’re going to kill us then we won’t untie you…” I watch as a evilly angelic grin creeps across her face. I untie her and she scampers to her on flight bag almost feverishly. Grabbing some Moon Sugar she sits contentedly on the edge off her bed and sups the captivating substance. I pick up my phone and dial as Tasha grabs a couple more sticks off the floor and starts looking for more.

“Hello, you’ve reached the travelling asylum, head lunatic speaking. How may I be of service?” I almost physically jumped with glee at her voice.

“ROB!!” I squealed.

”Catkin? Where are you? You were supposed to be here… 6 days, 18 hours and 37 minutes ago. What happened?”

“Tasha happened.” there was a pause, so I continued, “She… Wanted some Moon Sugar.”


“Yeah oh. So she went running off to find some, and then we were late, so we were rushing, and we got on the wrong plane.”

“Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”



Oh dear.


“Well… You could drive, or get a bus, or a plane, or a boat, or-”

Tasha bounded off her bed and nicked the phone from my hand. “TOLLEY!!!” She screamed down the line. I hummed the Arctic Monkeys under my breath to stop me exploding at her.

”Oh the boy’s a slag,

The best you’ve ever had,

The best you’ve ever had is just a memory and those dreams

As daft as they seem

As daft as they seem..."

“You shouldn’t say slag…” muttered Delia tiptoeing out of the bathroom.

“Oh. And Hilary of course!” With that Tash hangs up and chucks my phone into my open suitcase. Resisting the Tolley urge to close it, I looked at Tasha, complete with bedhead, straight in the eyes.

“Well?” She narrows her eyes menacingly. I don’t have the faintest clue what she’s on about and is about to ask her when she darts for my mobile, starts dialling and then groan when it dies in her hands.

“Sods law…” She mutters. “Don’t you mean Murphy’s law Tash?” I casually correct from my position on the bed. She shrugs and delves under her duvet.

“Flick the tele on Delia my love.” She mutters sleepily.

I wonder how long Rob is gonna take..?