My mind wants to attach itself back to the dream last night, the forlorn, desolate, decrepit dream . . . but British voice won’t allow it.

“Hallo? Yoo-hoo!”

Ah, yes. My friend. The eccentric lady from down the road.

What was it?

Penelope. Yes.

Penelope Persephone Crisp.

A bit early to come poking about, but perhaps nine a.m. is late for her. My grandmother used to wake up at five in the morning. Sometimes even four-thirty! It was positively grotesque!

“Hello, hello? Anybody home?” Her chipper voice hoists itself up the stairs as I peek over the banister.

“Yeah. Yes! I’m here.” I do sound a bit rude. I feel like I have to be more polite because she’s English. “I’ll just be a moment.”

I’m sure I look like I just fell out of a laundry basket.

“Hi there.” I come down.

She looks at me.

“Still asleep, are we?” she admonishes.

“Yeah. That’s right. Guilty.” I repony my ponytail.

“I must say, those jingly contrivances on the doors make such a fuss. I thought they would surely wake you,” she comments.

“I’m sorry . . .” I squint at her. “Jingly things?”

“Yes, you know. Those exotic tokens all over the doors.”

“Exotic . . . tokens. . . . On which doors?”

I open the front door and take a look.

“Hmm. That’s odd. I hadn’t noticed those before.” I look at the silver jangling things attached to the top of the door. “You’d think I would’ve noticed them.”

“Indeed,” she adds. “You know there’s one on every door.”

I continue inspecting them. At the bottom of each one there’s a blue circle, like a kind of target. Or an eye.

“There is?” I look at her.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure the professor brought them back from one of his many voyages. He’s quite the world traveler, you know. And his wife. Although, at least she doesn’t brag about sleeping on the ground in the dirt with grubs everywhere. The professor tends to romanticize these sort of things, you know. . . .” She trails off.

I notice she’s wearing the exact same thing she was wearing the other day. Hmm. Maybe as you get older it just doesn’t matter. Or maybe you just forget. I know I’d wear the same thing every day if I could get away with it. Or maybe she has multiple identical things. Like Steve Jobs. So she doesn’t have to think about it.

“Well, do you know what they are? I mean . . . are they like . . . dream catchers or something?”

“Dream catchers! Oh, heavens no. I don’t think so. Seems a bit touchy-feely for these academic types, don’t you think?” She peers at me.

“Yeah, I guess. I suppose I can google it.” I smile.

“Oh . . . quite.”

I get the distinct impression she has no idea what I’m talking about. I have the idea to offer her a cup of tea. Isn’t that what English people do? Cup of tea? Have some tea? Put the kettle on? If movies teach us anything, it’s that the English run on tea.