I'd met my younger brother for a drink somewhere in Corstorphine. The pub was very old and charming and a waitress was handing out free steaks from a platter. It was great. However, we were having such a nice time that, before we knew it, it was after 10 at night, which meant that my brother had missed his bus back to the west coast.
Notes for Freudian Analysis
The remarkable thing about this dream is that it's the first one I've had in which Andrew has been his actual age. Indeed, it's the first dream in which he's been any age other than four, which is an odd fact that I'm sure I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been keeping this blog. I've never been sure why my subconscious picture of Andrew should be of him as a little chap wearing corduroy dungarees and sporting an Egon Spengler-style bouffant (which he cultivated as an outward manifestation of his utter devotion to the nerdy Jewish one out of Ghostbusters), but that has been the case for as long as I've been keeping records.
Until Sunday night, as I said, when he shows up as his full-grown 22-year-old self. I'm sorry if you're looking for some sort of insight into why that might suddenly have happened, but I can't supply one. All I can give in the way of Freudian material is a suggestion that the free steaks are probably derived from the platter of delicious roast lamb slices that I liberally scavenged at a friend's 40th birthday party at the weekend.
Wait a minute -- a 40th birthday party? And Andrew is usually four? There's clearly more to this than I first thought. But nothing that I can see, sadly.