An Evening with Tom Bosley

I had the strangest dream.

An older friend* asked me to come out to visit his friend for an evening, and so I did. The host turned out to be Tom Bosley.

My tired friend excused himself early, and Tom and I drank whisky. He said he was born in Northern Ireland, and emigrated at a young age, and not a lot of people knew that.** Having spent a great deal of time in N.I., I was fascinated. He produced news clippings of his boyhood, and his accent slowly came back. A little.

In the dream, I was thinking, “I have to blog this. Everyone will be so surprised I was at Tom Bosley’s home.” Amazing what the dream-you thinks might be interesting. Sorry now to disappoint, but I had to blog it anyway. My dream self told me to.

*He was an old friend in the dream. I have absolutely no idea who that person was.

**He’s not. Which is why they don’t. But when I woke up, I googled him, thinking my subsconscious was providing fascinating factoids as I slept. It wasn’t. According to google, he was in a frightening show with a sappy woman from Northern Ireland, but my dream, thankfully, left that out. And I am pretty sure I did not know that before I googled it. I have been happily repressing Roma Downey in my memory for a decade.

Note to self: the dream me is not psychic.