Do Innkeepers ever get away themselves?

Last night I had a dream about our public radio classical music host , a woman who sounds spookily like Diane from Friends.  This, after a series of dreams in which Barack and I, newly appointed Citizen Advisor to the President, were thwarted in our innocent friendship by an enormous and I daresay rather threatening Michelle. In last night’s dream, Diane, the radio host, had an on-air meltdown.  CDs stuck and repeated; instead of Dame Janet Baker singing Elgar’s Sea Pictures, we got Groucho Marx singing, “Hello, I must be going”; things could be heard falling over in the studio; and ultimately, after more and more mishaps and many flustered apologies, we were left with the quiet snuffling and blubbing of Diane as she wept bitterly into a hissing and, one imagined, smoking microphone.  My unsympathetic snortling woke my husband who complained that he had been in the middle of an extremely interesting trip to India.  “It’s a fascinating place, you ought to go one night” he said.

“Perhaps I will” I said.  "I think my days in Washington are numbered."