A 3am Question

"Do you think you know yourself?" a pupil asked me.
You really do need a PhD in Philosophy to teach the flute.
I said that I thought I did, as far as anyone could know themselves but that most people will only see a little bit of you or more probably the bit they want to see; the bit that reflects themselves. It made me think. Most things make me think.  I'm like that baby owl in that picture book.

At work I had pointed out to a colleague, who had her name on the back of her tracksuit, how the EYFS children would read it. She laughed and said, "Why don't you work every day, I've missed you."
I wondered why and suggested that it was because I was the only person whose brain made odd connections.  She just laughed again.  That's the bit of me that she sees - the bit that makes her laugh - the bit that makes odd connections and grumbles about having to talk to people.  Another colleague at the photocopier snorted at my suggestion that my brain works differently.  She asked me if I've seen the Good Wife (I have. I've watched too much TV this year.) and she likened me to Elsbeth Tascioni.  This character is bonkers.  Properly bonkers. Sectionable but brilliant.  I started to worry because I'm not brilliant but fretted that she thought I could have genuine mental health issues. Alternatively, she could be bonkers and that’s just the bit of me that she identifies with.

Elsbeth Tascioni is a lawyer who appears completely disorganised but plucks brilliant thoughts out of nowhere. She gets absorbed by small details and then seems to go completely off topic to find the right answer. She can be talking about a complex case and start staring at the buttons on the person’s cardigan and say, “I like those buttons,” which gives her an idea to win the case. It’s almost like she’s seen the script. Maybe the tendency to be diverted is the small part I’m like.


I’m never more diverted than when I’m asleep and often wake up at 3am with a burning question.
This morning, my question was, “What colour is cancer?”  I had been asking people in my dream and whenever anyone told me what they thought I would argue with them.
“It’s got to be red. Red like blood,” said the dream Long Suffering Husband.
“I’ve always thought it would be white,” I replied.
“White? Are you mad woman?” This has to be my dream daughter. “How can something so awful be white? It’s got to be black.”
“It could be black,” conceded dLSH, “Like dying tissue.”
“I’ve always liked purple,” said my friend.
“I know but this isn’t a discussion about your favourite colour,” I reminded her
“It could be purple,” said another friend, “like a bruise.”
“No. I really think it’s white, like a tooth that’s growing in the wrong place.”
They pondered the suggestion, while bizarrely eating bananas. Dreams are weird.
“Green,” piped up my son of few words.
“Yes, I could go with green,” my daughter expanded for him, “like snot or infection a pussy oozing of stuff that shouldn’t be there.”
They all agreed that green would work as a colour.
“My snot is always yellow,” joined in my sister from nowhere. She was drinking a pint of beer.
They decided it could be yellow.
“But I’ve always thought it would be pearly white. You know, iridescent and shining, sitting where it shouldn’t.”
“Maybe it’s different colours depending on where it is,” said my mum, arranging her mints on the kitchen table by type, like a live version of Candy Crush.
Dreams are weird.
“Probably,” agreed my daughter, “That must be why the ribbons are different colours.”
We all said that we didn’t know they were different colours and she went on to explain all the colours she knew about until another friend appeared singing, “Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.”
“That would mean breast cancer is pink. I don’t like that. Pink is one of my favourite colours,” said my imaginary friend. Not my imaginary friend, Baby Cumby because he hasn’t been around for years but my imagined friend. Actually, it’s a shame Baby Cumby wasn’t there. He was always very wise.
“That would be cool,” I said, “pink pearls.”
My dream companions were confused.
“I’m sure I read somewhere that oysters that have pearls actually have cancer and the pearl is a cancer deposit. Maybe we would make jewellery from all the cancers they cut out of people.”
I woke up as everyone was shouting, “Julia! That’s gross!”

I just hope I can forget the dream, so that if I’m asked if I have any questions today I don’t say, “Yes. What colour is cancer?”