Never happens, except in dream sequences

Never happens, except in dream sequences

The other night I had a dream in which my dad and I went out on the town together. He had tickets to a ball where Mozart was doing a recital commissioned by a sheikh in Baghdad. On our way there, a police camel pulled up.

A City of Baghdad emblem was emblazoned on its side, along with a "To Serve And Protect" tattoo, and a flashing blue light on top of its hump. There was no siren but it issued hefty grunts.

The policewoman, who looked like Michelle Obama, stepped down and asked for our papers. Ever the joker, dad handed her the Baghdad Evening Post and the Chicago Sun Times. "Not that kind of paper," said the policewoman.

She spent a few moments flicking through the Sun Times. "We're off to a concert," said Dad, who in a surreal twist had turned into an English gentleman with a bowler hat. Officer Obama looked startled, went back to the camel and talked into its ear. The camel nodded a few times. My memory of them fades but I believe it asked her for a hamburger.

It started to rain and dad I ran to find shelter. There were a few explosions here and there but we were more worried about getting wet and dad spoiling his Savile Row suit.

Dreams like this are common for me. My father and I don't talk too much, so dreams where we meet Michelle Obama help fill a gap. We have, however, had a few memorable conversations.u00a0

Last week he returned from a trip to the US.

"How was it?"

"Good, good son. Well done for not going to India. Good to stay and look after the family."

"Yes."

"You can go now."

"I might, a bit busy with gigs."

"I have an idea for a film."

"Yes."

"This man gets on a train and leaves his hat. It's picked up by another passenger who wears it."

"Andu00e2u0080u00a6?"

"I can tell you're not interested."

Here are a few examples of other conversations over the years:

Tehran, April 1976

DAD: What is the capital of France?

ME: Paris.

DAD: What is the capital of Italy?

ME: Rome.

DAD: What is the capital of America?

ME: New York.

DAD: Well done, you got them all right.

London, 1978

SCHOOL CLERK: So Mr Khorsandi, how old are your children?

DAD: This one is a quarter to three, this one is half-past four.

London, November 1981

DAD: Son, I can't understand why you're no good with numbers. Your uncles and I were all good at maths.
ME: I am good. I just don't understand the teacher.

DAD: We didn't understand our teacher either. In fact, we didn't have a teacher. One of us would learn a formula and teach the others using potatoes. The potatoes doubled as our toys, and dinner.

Parking outside a shop in 1982

DAD (to British policeman): Officer, I park car here five minutes you watch no police give me ticket.

POLICEMAN: I'm sorry sir?

DAD: You watch my car I will be back, buying cigarettes.

POLICEMAN: I'm afraid you can't park here sir. Are those children yours?

DAD: Yes, my son has maths problem.

1984

DAD: Where are you going?

ME: The Queen is opening the Shopping Centre.

DAD: Oh yes, I know. I saw her toilet.

ME: Her toilet?

DAD: Yes. They build her royal toilet, I saw, just for one day in case she needs to use it.

ME: How do you know it was hers?

DAD: Well they didn't build it for me.

Recently, I've had one or two dreams where dad and I return to Iran (all political exiles dream of going back home). In one, dad and I take to the Persian Gulf at Dubai with the intention of swimming to Bandar Abbas in Iran. Dad panics when he can no longer feel the seabed beneath his feet and turns back. Another dream has us in a border town in Iraq looking down at the checkpoint. We exchange a look of longingu00a0if only we could hop over the fence and get a kebab.

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