As I've said on many occasions - the most recent one being two days ago - I can't help but be impressed by the perfect clarity with which The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet speaks, especially when she does it while fast asleep.

She's taking a nap on the sofa as I type this. When I walked past her a moment ago, her snoring stopped and she said, "I don't think they can hear it. It's not a big deal."

Then she opened her eyes, looked at me and asked, "Wait, did I just say something?"

"No," I lied.

"Nevermind," she said and started to snore again.

As I've said on many occasions, I can't help but be impressed by the perfect clarity with which my wife speaks, especially when she does it while fast asleep.

This morning the Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet woke up earlier than she usually does, came downstairs and greeted me. After a few minutes of conversation with me she stretched out on the sofa to play with one of our cats. A few minutes after that she was fast asleep with the cat sprawled out on top of her.

In the midst of the gentle snores that advanced and retreated like waves on a beach, she said one word:

"Shit."

I was having a weird little dream when I woke up this morning.

A boy - seven or eight years old, and possibly me - was playing with a doll, of the kind that people who are afraid of the words "boy" and "doll" appearing in the same sentence would call an "action figure." I never saw the boy's face, or the action figure's. The entire dream occurred in a close-up of the boy's hands as they held the doll with only its legs and back visible to me.

It was a small doll, maybe six or eight inches tall. The boy was installing a pair of batteries in a compartment on the doll's back. The batteries were 'D' sized - those big ones that go in flashlights - and ridiculously misproportioned on the doll. It looked a man would if he were carrying two garbage cans on his back. More oddly, the batteries didn't actually do anything. The doll had no features that required any electrical power.

But the big and useless batteries were not the oddest thing about the action figure. Somehow - the boy in the dream knew but I don't - the doll could be converted from one superhero to a second superhero. If the boy wanted to play with Superman he could, or he could very easily switch something around and Ta-Da! he would be playing with his Chi Chi Rodriguez action figure. (Yes, that Chi Chi Rodriguez, the golfer.) And in the dream, his name was pronounced the same way Les Nessman pronounced it in an episode of WKRP In Cincinnati: "Chai Chai Rod-ri-gweez."

Hey, I don't make these things up. I just write 'em down.

We spent the first part of this week in Ocean City, Maryland, where I enjoyed the lovely weather at the beach and my wife, The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet, remained in our hotel room, knocked flat on her behind by a cold that descended on her like a Nor'easter. She spent her time on the drive back home much like she'd spent the previous three days: alternating among sleep, wracking coughing fits and thundering headaches. In the spirit of being grateful for small mercies, at least when she slept there were no coughing fits or headaches.

Also, as I've said before, I can't help but be impressed by the perfect clarity with which my wife speaks, especially when she does it while fast asleep. On today's drive she did it three times.

1 (Near Salisbury, MD): A song by Bjork was playing on the car stereo. The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet stopped snoring for a moment and said, "This is not a movie and she is not doing anything with a bomb. That is not a detonator in her cheek." Then she began to snore again.

2 (West of Baltimore, MD): The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet suddenly asked me, "Is that a car?" I wasn't sure that I heard her correctly, so I asked, "What?" She replied, "Is that a car? A toy car?"

3 (Near Frostburg, MD): As I descended a hill during a snow squall, the Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet blurted out, "And anyway, if you kidnap someone you want to keep them alive longer because you get more money."

I didn't ask. I don't want to know.

I've said it before: I can't help but be impressed by the perfect clarity with which my wife, the Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet, speaks, especially when she does it while fast asleep.

At 2:08 this morning, it was, "I don't need you to go into the basement."

I know it was 2:08 a.m. because a minute earlier, she had reached across and suddenly clawed my face just between my nose and upper lip. She drew blood!

If there are no posts in the next few days, check my basement. Your humble scribe might be the centrepiece of a tableau featuring hanging laundry and a bloodbath.