“Oh no!” I cried out, as the actress revealed she was not wearing any knickers.

I couldn’t understand why everyone around me (and there were many, including my brother Robert who is a member of a church) was so laid back about the risqué performance. It was a most unusual play, set in the outdoors – in a street, actually – and the audience lined the street while the cast cavorted.

“How rude!” I said loudly, “How typically Northcott Theatre!” (Years ago I went to a play called, “Privates on Parade” – hardy har har – at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter. Obviously the Northcott had aimed to buck against the perception of the West Country as being an artless and parochial part of Britain and, in doing so, had endeavoured to be avant-garde.)

“Sh… Sally,” said Robert, glaring at me, “you’re the one being rude!”

The actress lifted her skirt again and, in despair, I closed my eyes (as I had done those many years ago at the Northcott Theatre).

“I think they should be jolly well ashamed of themselves,” I hollered out for everyone to hear.

“Salleeeee,” Robert put an annoying stress on the ‘y’ sound (making me hate my name), “You remind me of Mum”.

“How parochial,” sneered the actress.

All the people present – cast and audience – stopped and stared at me with utter disdain. In sheer horror and frustration I found there was nothing more I could say or do except levitate; unfortunately, I was unable to fly up to my usual twelve feet or so (ceiling height) and could manage only five feet – around shoulder height. Nevertheless, I hovered triumphantly above the crowd and gloated.

“That’s nothing,” said the actress, “I know someone else who can do that.”

Then there came a tap on my door and I awoke to find that my head was thumping and foggy. Not only was I having a bad reaction to an allergy tablet (new ones, untried by me before), but also, I was still suffering the bad reaction from a brush against a spiky Agave plant in Bill’s garden some days ago.

“Are you alright Sally? You’re normally up before now,” inquired my host through the door.

“I was just watching a rude play and hovering, like a big turkey, above a crowd of people who hated me,” I answered, managing a laugh in spite of my headache.

“You must have been thinking about those huge chicken breasts we had for dinner last night,” came the reply.

And this morning my world isn’t quite so foggy; the rash is still burning on my thigh but my head belongs to me. And soon I shall cycle over to the Albert River and meditate, if not levitate, on the bridge.