I have mentioned my dreams several times on my blog and how I can’t understand them. There was the dream where I was a secret agent and parachuted into France with my horse. There was another where I auditioned for the role of Santa Claus in a Ricky Gervais movie and there was one when I visited a prop shop where actors bought their props and where I discovered that in the garden they were selling mock decaying bodies for episodes of CSI.
It’s all been very, very confusing. Now I know that for some writers like Chaunce Stanton and John Dickinson (who I interviewed for The View From Here) and John’s father (children’s author Peter Dickinson) their dreams feature very much in their stories and are often the inspiration behind them. Not so for for Mrs T who dreams amount to nothing but some sort of weird Monty Python meets Mel Brooks drug induced madness. (Nytol) I have never understood my dreams… until now. You see, on Monday night I actually had a dream I understood. It went like this:
I am standing in our garden tending to the weeds and all of a sudden a small sink-hole appears. I watch as Master Ben’s chickens go to investigate and, one by one, they tumble down to the bottom of the valley where there are six very small and distant splashes.
If the fall hasn’t killed them, they will drown, I rejoice think. I carry on tending the weeds and out of nowhere the Head Coach from the high performance tennis centre my boys attend appears in the garden and also falls down the sink hole. There is a much bigger splash. I go over and look down into the darkness as I look down a chicken starts to wriggle is way back up the hole and, one by one, the chickens reappear and resume pecking in the garden.
The chickens are alive. They can survive any hazard. They are immortal.
I peer down again into the sink hole at the Head Coach. He cannot get out of the water. He will probably drown. So I climb down the sink hole, pressing my hands and feet against the walls, when I reach the bottom I pull him out of the water and haul him to the top of the hole to safety.
Yep, so I finally have a dream I understand. I figure it’s this:
My chickens are driving me insane waking me from what little sleep I get. I looked mildly deranged before we got chickens – now I look completely deranged. I surmise my dream is telling me that if some nice kind person were to adopt them I would be eternally grateful. In the meantime, the chickens are never, ever going to go away. They are immortal. I thought they were just called Agatha, Miss Brodie, Moneypenny, Miss Muffett, Matron and Mrs Simpson. Now I know they all possess the clan surname Macleod. You know, I do kinda love Master Ben’s chickens and I even spoil them with grated cheese treats but they are a huge responsibility. Help me, please someone. Please. Take my chickens away….
Anyway, luckily, I didn’t have a dream about roast potatoes and gravy. Well not yet.
Regarding the tennis coach: I had an argument at the tennis centre on Monday. Well I tried to have an argument but you can’t have an argument or even a discussion with someone who is only prepared to stonewall you. It’s somewhat irritating and my pseudo-non argument made me get pretty darn cross. The ethos at the tennis centre is all about harmony, “trust” and turning tennis into some sort of spiritual quest. I have actually been waiting for the chanting to begin. “You must trust us,” I was told. Sadly, I prefer evidence rather than trust – after all I’m trusting them with a huge amount of my money to teach my children. Unfortunately, of late, the evidence to me is that their teaching has not really been that effective. Personally, I think if “trust” is the only argument you can come up with then you’re really talking a pile of bullshit waffle.
Call me Mrs Awkward but I like to have an opinion.
Yeah, well I can hear some of you saying that I also talk a load of bullshit waffle but be fair now – at least I don’t charge extortionate amount of money for it. I am giving away this stuff for free! Anyhow, I pretty much guess they’ll be pronouncing me as some hard nosed, bitter and spiritually corrupt malcontent at the tennis centre for being too vocal and causing an “incident” – but hey who cares I saved a man’s life even if he doesn’t give a damn about my children’s tennis careers.
Maybe I ain’t so bad after all.
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| The Blank Slate Boarding House for Creatives by Chaunce Stanton. Where dreams come alive. |
