“You don’t have any idea!”

I had the most profoundly bizarre dream last night. I dreamed I was with Abbie, and her son Wilfred, who was born a couple of months ago. Wilfred, in the dream, looked surprisingly grown up and I told Abbie that I reckoned he was going to be quite an early talker. I’m not quite sure why I was suddenly an expert on the development of babies, but I felt sure that Wilfred, who incidentally was dressed in Victorian clothing, was going to speak earlier than any other baby in the world!

...And sure enough, just as I’d given my prediction, Wilfred opened his mouth and said “you don’t have any idea!” The voice was crystal clear, quite sing-songy and incredibly loud in my ear, to the extent that I immediately woke up, convinced that I’d been awoken by someone actually in the bedroom. It was such a freakish occurrence that I made a note of the time: Two minutes past five.

It turns out that Abbie was, indeed, awake at that time, and quite stressed as a result of Wilfred crying continuously in the night. I wonder if our wires crossed over on some spiritual plain!

Nathan and I only have one set of car keys. Up until today, we’ve muddled by, with a little hook on the wall where we hang the key when we get into the house after driving somewhere. 

We were both working yesterday. I was singing at shul and Nathan had two knitting classes booked in rural Berkshire. As ever, I took the tube in, and Nathan’s only option was to drive. I usually switch my phone off as soon as I leave the house on my way to synagogue. I like to spend the tube journey going over my music and it’s my nod towards Shabbat rules which ban, amongst other things, using electronic equipment on the sabbath.

Thankfully I didn’t, and happened to look at my phone as I changed trains at Oxford Circus. There were missed calls and countless text messages from Nathan, all asking where the car keys were. My blood ran cold, and I did that thing of almost not daring to touch my jacket pocket where, instinctively, I knew I’d find the keys.

I immediately went into a panic. My heart was pounding in my ears. Nathan and I exchanged more texts, “oh hell, I’ve got the keys” “then you must turn around and bring them back” “I’m at Bond Street. I’ll never make it to shul if I turn around now.” “Get out of the tube and order an Uber...” 

And so that’s what I did. And I stood, on an empty, early morning Oxford Street, waiting for the cab to arrive. Horrifically, it became apparent that there were roadworks in every direction. The Uber app kept telling me that my driver was three minutes away, then one minute, then three again. I could see the poor guy on the map driving round in circles in an attempt to get to me, thwarted at every pass by road blocks.

So there I was, running through the streets in a panic, a weird sticky mizzle enveloping me, attempting to get out of the area around Bond Street tube which seemed to have become such an effective anti-car oasis! Thankfully, the charming driver persisted, and didn’t bugger off, as is so often the case with Uber drivers. Fifteen minutes later, I’d handed the keys over and he was winging his way back to Highgate.

Nathan ended up being 40 minutes late for his class, but was mercifully pragmatic about the pickle I’d left him in.