Well, I did; with tepid water, to baptise a four-year-old girl in. Several times (the filling, not the baptising) because every time the bath was half full someone used it for another purpose: to stash lots of flowers, to fill a kettle dunking the whole kettle while it was plugged in (fortunately the girl’s mother was an electrician, and had cut the electrical circuit before that happened).
The mother and her two daughters were from Afghanistan. The mother and the eleven-year-old girl were already Orthodox, but there had been no opportunity to get the four-year-old baptised. Fr T went to Vlissingen to do that, in the aforementioned bath, and took me and one of the basses, P, with him to sing. P had made a new translation of Psalm 50 full of politically activist language and I said “yes! read that!” (though we don’t read Psalm 50 at all at a baptism).
After a couple of futile attempts I left everything to P and went away to a market, also a political thing, stalls for ideas and causes rather than produce. There I met a man I know slightly IRL (we greet each other in the street, though I don’t know his name and couldn’t say how I know him), who in the dream apparently was an old friend. He proceeded to try to kiss me, aggressively and rather clumsily. When I kneed him between the legs and said “I never want that. Never at all,” he made that pouty mock-surprised face of a man who can’t imagine that a woman doesn’t want to be kissed by him. “If you do that again I’ll report you for assault,” I said, “and if you go any further I’ll report you for rape.”
When I got back from the market the baptism was already done and lots of people, mostly Afghan women, were cleaning up and carrying food and generally being busy. I only got in their way, so I got on a tram (without a ticket, and that made me very uncomfortable but I hadn’t found any way to get one) (also, the waking-world Vlissingen doesn’t have a tram line), presumably to go home.