Reassurance

Who was that you were talking to? asked Pliny the Elder.

Sigmund Freud, I replied.

Freud ! Tennyson! Why don't you talk to me any more? he said peevishly.

OK. What shall we talk about? Moby Dick?

Why yes, I believe your son has bought a motor bike. Has he ridden it yet?

But I said ........... oh, never mind. Yes he has. Yesterday he was telling me how he decided to ride to the shops for some milk in the evening. It was a long story. First he had to put on his jacket and boots and helmet. Then he had to open up the garage, get the bike out and close the garage. He was on the bike and about to ride off when he remembered he still had the tinted visor and had to go back and change it for the clear visor, because it was night time. At the shops he turned off the engine, got off the bike and was about to walk away from it when he realised his lights were still on. He wondered whether they were programmed to stay on for a few seconds for safety reasons. But they stayed on too long for that. He stood looking at them for several minutes. At last he realised that he'd given the key an extra turn before taking it out, and this had turned the parking lights on. So at least he learned something. Then he bought the milk. Then he got back on the bike and rode home. He put the bike away in the garage. Finally he took off his helmet, his jacket and his motorcycle boots. Quite a performance, just for a carton of milk, he said.

What was the meaning of this story? asked Pliny.

Don't you start, I said. I assure you I didn't make it up or dream it.

No, but you have written it, said Pliny, with a meaningful look. So it must have meant more to you, and indeed to him, since he told it to you, than the tedious nature of the story would seem to indicate.

How clever you are, Pliny, I said. But do you know that you are going deaf? I said Moby Dick, not motor bike, earlier.

I know, said he, but I assumed it was a Freudian slip.