Further adventures in Surreality

Well, very uncharacteristcially, on the last day I came out and asked if he thought he could put any work my way.
And I actually got an email from him within 24 hours saying, well, yes, he'd been thinking about it, and could I do this and this and what sort of figure might I have in mind...
And no, I can't say I'd PAY HIM to do it (no, I'm not that desperate), but actually it does sound really really interesting, and I'd love to be involved with his project (leaving aside the obvious attractions - I mean, this would be a professional arrangement and would have to stay that way, although any time spent socialising with him would be a distinct bonus).
So, I'm thinking... I can't let this opportunity pass me by, but what exactly am I supposed to say? I mean, I could ask the hourly rate I charge for my part-time admin work, but I don't have a clue how long the things he's asking for would actually take me, and is he hesitant because he's seen my website and has fallen for the idea that I'm a 'consultant' and thinks he wouldn't be able to afford me?
On the other hand, the last two jobs I've quoted for I didn't hear any more about, so am I over-pricing myself?
And what might be his motivation, anyway? No, I really CAN'T let myself start thinking that way. I can't go down that road, that way madness lies...

Just spent four days in the company of my dream man (charm, humour, formidable intelligence, own hair, lovely smile). Well, and lots of other people. And he went home to his wife and three kids every evening. Which is just as well really, because that way he stays firmly in my dreams and doesn’t complicate my life any further.
When I revisited Melinda-blog recently, I was reminded of the exchange I had with Purple Dragon about nakedness under the full moon. At the time I thought – hmmm, it’s getting to that time of year again. But will we have any of those sultry nights this year I wonder? And anyway, where we live now, there isn’t a part of the garden which isn’t over-looked. So somehow I don’t think it will happen again.
Been awake since 4:15 – need to detox the caffeine and red wine of the last four days – and I was thinking about this, and about how those moments of surreality (eg naked under the moon) push through the surface of The Hum Drum. I had this vision of a plane surface with these contours dotted around randomly (salsa dancing in a sleazy Brussels bar, there’s another example). And I wonder, is there another life obscured under that tarpaulin of everyday, which exists somewhere, in some other dimension? Would it ever be possible to pull away the sheet and expose it in all its rainbow wonder? Hmm, sounding a bit new-agey airy fairy purple prosey various other negative-judgemental comments here. I have this vision of one of those contour diagrams you see in books about hyper-dimensionality and chaos theory and all that stuff, (which I’m sure everybody reads all the time, not just me). And then you pick up the edge and slowly peel it back and underneath there’s a Sgt Pepper Yellow Submarine psychedelic landscape peopled by loveable moustachioed moptops in enormous flared trousers and Kate Bush lifting up her skirts. You know the sort of thing I mean.
Anyway, even though my week of mind-wanking in Oxford is now over, I still have the Royal Geographical Society, Cyprus and Brussels to look forward to. Which is pretty exciting. Oh, and somewhere in that lot I have to go into hospital to have this lump removed from my breast. But it’s no big deal, so they tell me, just day surgery, only a precaution anyway, it’s not even pre-cancerous, just a few abnormal cells that showed up on the biopsy, so they’re being ultra-ultra cautious.
On Wednesday evening I mentioned this for the first time to people outside my immediate family and oldest friend. Two of them were Australian academics I’d known for twenty four hours, and the third a friend from past conferences (not the MOMD), Dean of economics at an Australian university who happens to be of dark skinned southern Indian extraction who was describing the utter humiliation he was subjected to at JFK airport on his way over because they decided he was in a ‘high risk category’, which meant he didn’t get to Oxford for the start of the conference he was co-organising. And somehow, though I didn’t want to suggest it was remotely comparable, I started blurting out the story of sitting in a room with five male doctors (don’t ask me why it was five), being questioned about my breast. I mean, hey, I’m sure it’s not the first time men have discussed my breasts among themselves. And while I was in the room, only one of them spoke (and he was the only one who actually examined me – at least they didn’t all come into the cubicle for a feel), but the way he questioned me made me feel like a piece of meat. Well, OK, I suppose not many people interrogate a slab of best end, but you know what I mean. And it brought home to me how someone in authority can demean and belittle another human being. Which was why my friend’s story made me think about it, and I suppose why I blurted it out.
When we said goodbye yesterday, he held my hand and told me to be happy, because life is too short. Couldn’t have put it better myself.