Emailing From the Afterlife

Monday, January 08, 2007
I was quite shocked this morning to receive an email from the long dead, Eighteenth-Dynasty boy-king pharoah himself. Who knew they had internet access in the underworld. Who knew his last name was Summerfield or that he was currently in Italy?




This was on top of the very odd dream I had last night. I had just landed in London for my first trip abroad and was working my way through Customs, thoughts of Big Ben, Westminster Abbey and the British Museum running rampant through my mind. As the Customs agent checked my passport, we chatted about the purpose of my trip, how long I was staying, the weather, etc. I began to notice that everyone else was whipping through the Customs counters in less than a minute but I had been stuck here for a good five minutes or more. Suddenly two rather large, burly airport security guards grabbed me by the arms and dragged me off as my fellow travellers looked on. We ended up in an interrogation room with a large two way mirror, a bright overhead fluorescent light and very uncomfortable metal chairs. The next few hours were spent with various goverment officials questioning me repeatedly about my involvement in terrorist organizations and the location of my weapons of mass destruction.

I was beyond confused. I tried over and over again to explain that I wasn't a terrorist or even a bad person but they were having none of it. They claimed they had evidence of my subversive ways. Out came a large folder, stuffed full of official looking papers and my name typed neatly on the corner. One of the interrogators opened the folder and flipped to what looked like a police report. It seems that being arrested for public drunkeness and skinny dipping in the fountain outside city hall counts as terrorist activities (relax...it was a dream, I haven't done any of those things...yet). I started laughing hysterically until he slammed his fist on the metal table. "This isn't a laughing matter" he shouted at me, spitting in my face. That slapped the happy off of my face in record time. Another man in a suit entered the room, looked sideways at me, and whispered something to the guy who had yelled at me. Without a word, I was dragged off again.

For the next 7 days, I was locked in a cell in the airport's security department. Finally, on the 8th (and final) day of my vacation, I was brought before a judge. Oddly enough, she was presiding over a court at the baggage claim area of Heathrow and sat atop the luggage carousel. She took one look at my file and realized that they had arrested the wrong person. She ordered me realised immediately. However, she decreed my habit of getting completely wasted and flashing my jubblies to the world while frolicking in a public fountain was frowned upon in Britain and that I was not allowed to return....ever.

I woke up.

4 comments:

Pickled Olives said...

I'm guessing you feel guilty about the exposin gof the Jubbies and the fountain frolicking. Like I said, just a guess...

Barbara Bruederlin said...

Wow, what did you have for suppper last night?

Jubblies is a great word hehe!

ems said...

Ha, ha! I never remember my dreams.

Third time this evening that I've had the same word verification. Spooky.

Random Reflections said...

That is *just* what it's like at UK immigration/ customs. It's almost like you've been to the UK before.

We're terribly reserved us Brits and we can't have people exposing themselves to the world. It might make us choke on our tea and biscuits.

Powered by Blogger.
Back to Top