Wow, did I have a weird dream last night. I was middling member of the federal civil service (think Bernard from Yes, Minister) and Prime Minister Trudeau had just died (in truth, he died ten years ago next month), and had been buried under the boards in a room that looked very much like the one I slept in when I was ten. Something bothered us about it two days after his burial, and so we disinterred him. I remember the body had the stitch lines of an autopsy, but for all that, we were vindicated when Trudeau's eyes slowly opened and he rose from the coffin to move past us on his way to the bathroom. I remembered fearing his guts would fall out, but the resurrected prime minister flexed his stomach muscles and everything was back in place.
I remember running down the steps of Parliament Hill to a building where my grandmother, who herself has been dead for twenty years, lived (in the dream, but not in reality); a chic structure of steel and ultramarine glass. As it happened, she was near the lobby, so I was able to make her the first to hear the good news that the great man was with us still and it had all been a misunderstanding. She was pleased to hear it but rained sputtering Irish scorn on me and the rest of the bureaucracy for making such a stupid mistake before taking me up for tea and lunch.
A really weird dream, but a pleasing set of fulfilled wishes.