We were moving into a new house we’d bought. It was still full of the ex-owners’ furniture and belongings and I wondered what we’d do with them. We were hosting a housewarming party and a turkey roasted in the oven like it was Thanksgiving. I kept finding new spaces as I explored the house, funky little bedrooms and hallways that led to more. I felt both excitement that we’d found this place and regret that we’d left our old one. I wondered what the neighborhood might be like. I walked out into a semi-urban space, a lively block with a Thai restaurant and a mix of other businesses. It felt like we were going to be OK.

I was in the cafeteria or restaurant of some city landmark, possibly a museum. I found myself chatting with a group of older men who gathered there every week. We talked about the varying quality of the food in places like this. I was flattered that they seemed amused by my repartee. It seemed as though I was being invited into the fold and I asked when they’d be there next. One of them asked me if I could buy him some pot. A fifth of a pound, he wanted.

I was participating in some kind of discussion panel at work, with the rest of the agency watching. It took place in some weird building, not our workplace, maybe an elaborate, old hotel. As the others in the group carried on I felt self-conscious and guilty for being silent. Surely I’d be scorned for not participating. I had to say something. The facilitator polled the panel on the question of whether we should continue to make use of Monty Python’s services in our work. There were twelve of us and eleven voted yes. I turned to the man who’d voted no. “What, are they not funny enough?” I asked. Somehow this seemed extremely clever, and there was chuckling from the others and the audience. “Or maybe they’re too funny?” I added. This comment was perceived as more brilliant than the first. Everyone laughed in appreciation. I was proud of having spoken up so wittily. I’m not sure how the other guy answered, or if he even did.