Prophesy

Those who know me well enough will know I describe myself as 'psychically dead', which is basically my way of saying I have no extra sensory gifts. So here's something I thought would be completely out of character: I had a prophetic dream last night.

It was both a good sleep and a bad sleep, good because it was deep but bad because I was still trying to settle the turbulence in my mind. Anyway, my dream was that we went on our company bonding trip, only it wasn't to the snow. There was an obstacle course we had to traverse and some of it had jungle bits and other parts seemed two-dimensional. At one stage N fell behind and I went back to get her but she refused to accept my help. Eventually, I left her and caught up to the main of the group.

My boss congratulated me, saying it was the right thing to do. I took the opportunity to ask him for a pay rise and he said 'how much?'. I said '10 percent more' and he said 'okay'.

This morning I was at work early because I had to conduct a phone interview with someone in Canada before they left work for the day and I arrive to an email from my boss saying 'can you come and see me between 9 and 10, you don't need to bring your handbag, nothing to worry about'. Just before my interview (due to start at 9) I tell him I can't do between 9 and 10 because I'm doing the phoner but he just says to come in when I'm done. I seriously believed he was going to be in a meeting with one of our export partners and he wanted me to sit in on some of it.

Anyway, so after the interview I visit again and he calls my editor in... and he gives me a pay rise. More than 10%, in fact 15%. And this is very good because I have an email sitting in my drafts folder requesting a meeting about this very issue and now I don't have to work at carefully wording it.

Other news: went to my first Live Poets Society meeting at the Don Bank Museum. Have been meaning to go for a while but have always had something on. Was just going to sit in and observe but at the urging of a couple of people I met, I read this poem, which was pretty much the only legible one in my notebook:

Traces
He wields his scars like
A badge of honour
A life lived
A demon conquered
While on her body the marks
Melt into her skin as stains
Showing where the
Damage was done.

Unfortunately the next one clashes with my writing group meeting, which meets on the second last Wednesday of the month, due to July having five Wednesdays. August, maybe.

Okay, I'm cold and I'm going to bed.