Or a beautiful nightmare?
I’ve been having some seriously mental dreams recently which have had me waking up in a cold sweat wondering whether the BFG has been hooting LSD in through my bedroom window. Last night it was a dream about being taught to ballroom dance in the middle of my road by a man who lives opposite whilst cars were rushing past honking and the Strictly judges were sat on my garden wall like a Greek chorus. I had all the flair and grace of a dying Humpback Whale whereas he was a fricking twinkle toes and when he tried to dip me I got the giggles and bit his nose.
The weekend saw me conjure up a multi-storey car park in Palestine where I spent what felt like hours trying to park a white Ford Cortina before giving up and joining a sightseeing tour (of a car park!) with a merry band of American pensioners. After ditching the car I suddenly found myself chewing the end of a pencil which shattered in my mouth but my sense of public decency and the scary car park guards following me round meant that I couldn’t spit it out. I got into a row with a gun toting bloke who accused me of dribbling and had to be rescued by a shell suited fanny packed blue rinser from Las Vegas called Blanche.
I always thought dreams were meant to tell you something and in fact some of my best thinking has been done with my eyes shut but these (as well as some not fit for publication on here!) have left me utterly baffled. I’m probably reading too much into it but sat at work today I couldn’t keep thinking about whether I’m missing some glaringly obvious meaning…
Anyone own a dream book?