Whisky Magazine Issue 59
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Michael Jackson on recurring dreams of the circus coming to town
Wake up. Better try again. A sentence that ends in a preposition is not a propitious way to begin a new day.
Don't know where I am. Never do until the day's first downfall of coffee. "Bad for your blood pressure," warns my doctor. "The decaf was killing me," I protest. She smothers a laugh. The joke was accidental, spontaneous, unintended, I claim. My jokes are wearing thin with her. My doctor is a beautiful woman. When she takes my blood pressure, it is always dangerously high. When she is not available, various male doctors in the practice ask for my arm, but find less to worry them. When I mentioned this, she didn't know whether to be flattered or bored. Our professional relationship took a downturn when she got married to a fellow with a nose for malt beverages. She likes a drink or three herself, but doesn't want every weekend to be a beer-hunt or whisky chase inspired by one of my books, articles or TV programmes.
I think she secretly enjoys the thought that I may be cracking under the strain. The morning I went to the airline ticket desk but couldn't remember my proposed destination.
Or the day I flew to the wrong city. "Serves him right. Doesn't look after himself,” I hear her saying to herself.
"Still having vivid dreams?" she asks. That's it!
Huddersfield I'm in Huddersfield. Elephants are walking through the streets. Caught napping again. When I was a boy in Huddersfield, sanserif posters announced a circus once a year. The animals arrived by train. The elep...