forebodings

A night of strange and perturbed dreams.
I dreamed I was hiding in the bushes watching as Pauline's open air wedding took place.
The guests were all dancing in a green glade on Aran island.
And horror of horrors.
Each guest was dancing not with another guest, but with a painting from my private collection.
Uncle Scutch was dancing with a Josephine Hardiman study of Banna Strand.
Yogic sister Marie was snuggling up to Scuplticus's monk.
Gambling cousin Vincent was gyrating with Mariana Gabor's nudey thing.
Even my brother in law atomic physicist Phil was tripping the light fantastic with Diana Becerra's stunning Homage Aux Snots Verts.
Troublingly enough, I could see the paintings were really enjoying themselves.
But worst of all gentle travellers of the internet...
Worst of all was the band.
The band was the Beach Boys.
And they were playing one of their surf songs from the 1960s.
Only they didn't sing the famous lyric: "Two girls for every guy."
Instead they sang:
"Two paintings for every girl."
It was unholy.
I awoke in a cold sweat.