Tap, tap.

I snuggle deeply under the quilt, warm and heavy with sleep.

Somewhere, deep in my dreams, I become aware of a gentle but insistent tapping on my left shoulder.

I ignore. Sleep is so good and the dreams I’m emerging from are even better. I’m simply not interested in waking up yet.

The tap continues, more insistent this time.

I want to yell ‘Go away and leave me alone!’

But that would require effort, like waking up and opening my eyes.

There is another small tap.

I reluctantly roll slightly to my left, face upwards and squint through slits between my heavy eyelids.

No!

A small man, a mere few inches tall, stands next to my left shoulder, peering at me. His gnarled index finger is poised to tap again.

It is my dad, and he looks rather solemn.

There are a few things wrong with this picture. Firstly, my dad passed away 28 years ago. Secondly, he was not a few inches tall, more like 5 ft 10 inches.

But here he is, looking at me with a serious expression.

‘What are you doing, Michael?’, he asks gravely.

I try to croak out an answer, to explain the obvious – that I’m trying to bloody well sleep, or at least I was until some rude individual woke me up. But nothing comes out.

‘No, I don’t mean what are you doing now’, he continues, as if I’ve spoken anyway. ‘I mean, what are you doing with your life?’

Oh.

That old chestnut.

‘You’re not getting any younger, you know’, he continues, unbothered by the irony of addressing a son who is still younger than he was when he passed away. ‘What are you? 60? You must have a birthday soon?’

It was mum who remembered our exact birthdays, but he is nearly correct. I’m 61, turning 62 in a few weeks. I want to say this but for some reason can’t get any words out. I’m guessing the fact that my dead father has visited and is the size of an elf might have something to do with it.

‘You haven’t got forever, son’, he says wearily. ‘Trust me. I know. We all think that there is plenty of time, but at the last minute you will understand that you should have just done some of those things you really wanted to do’.

He nods to stress his point.

He then leans forward, scrutinizing my face. He does not appear to like what he sees, but who does look good first thing in the morning? Seriously, Dad.

‘You’re getting on. Take that trip. Write the book that you want to write. Love your wife better. Mix more. Stop worrying so much about money’.

Ah!

I know what’s coming next. It’s one of those mantras that he used to repeat so often and was so proud of.

He smiles as if he reads my mind.

‘You can’t take money with you when you’re gone, you know’.

I try really hard to respond to him this time. I want to ask him where he has been for the past 28 years, what it is like. Are mum and my two deceased siblings there with him, for instance?

But all that comes out is a noise like the mating call of a moose.

‘Michael. Michael! Are you alright?’

This time it is not miniature dad but my wife, sitting upright in bed. She looks at me with a concerned expression. I’m a bit older than her and she worries that I’m going to die in bed one night. My attempts to yell during the occasional bad dream do not help the situation.

The cat, a tortoiseshell dark and orange super-villain, has a paw raised in mid-air near my left shoulder. She looks like she wants to tap me one more time, to demand my attention, but is now wary of me because of the calling out.

The mating call of a moose can do that to cats.

‘Jesus’, I say. ‘Sorry. Bad dream. Very weird’.

‘Oh okay. You sounded distressed’.

Wouldn’t you if your dead father visited and started giving life advice?

But I just murmur ‘Sorry if I frightened you’.

She lies back, pulls the cat onto her chest, and starts mushing her face into its hairy belly, playing.

I lie there for a few minutes to get my bearings.

I then rise, go to the dining room table where my laptop is set up and flick it on.

I wait a few minutes.

I then start writing.

After all, time waits for no man (or woman).