Andrew dropped off the latest two episodes of series four of Game of Thrones last night.
Needless to say, I watched them both before retiring. I am not sure what, if any, significance that has to the night that followed.
I have been waiting for some news that may affect my future. I had understood it would arrive last Wednesday. A week later and no word, a situation that tends to help me draw my own conclusion. I am not sure what, if any, significance that has, either.
I was in a medieval market town where hundreds of people were crowding around a coin-operated badminton table (I know – badminton tables only exist in dreams). I should point out at this stage that I used to be quite a good player, but badminton to me has become a euphemism for betrayal and adultery. Whether that has any significance is an interesting thought.
I examined the racquets that were available, and decided that whoever designed them knew nothing about badminton. The shafts were too long and the head too small. It would be impossible to find the sweet spot, I thought. Nonetheless I challenged the champion to a match, and pulled some coins from my pocket to activate the table. My adversary graciously offered to pay for the match and told me to take some money from his wallet which lay open on the table. It was stuffed with notes. I had not realised the table could accept notes, and withdrew a couple from the wallet. I saw they were 1 baht notes from Indonesia. Apparently the table accepted them as if they were Australian five dollar notes. An ingenious way to play on the cheap.
News of the match had caused a great deal of excitement amongst the crowd who were now surging around in great numbers. I became separated from my opponent and went searching for him. I caught a glimpse in the press, and lost him again. It was the pursuit scene from Blade Runner. My opponent was Leon. Marshalls appeared and began to organise the crowd, separating them out and creating an open space around the badminton table which was now brightly lit.
A group of Solomon Islanders, and some workers from the Shire depot were organising themselves into a cheering party, and began singing and dancing like Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They invited me to join them to warm up for the match. I knew I was old and arthritic, and I was going to lose, but warming up did seem like a good idea. I pushed through to join them, but a Marshall held me back, saying that the area was reserved for players in the Great Game.
I pushed past him. “I AM the game” I said.