Dreamtime
Dreams are a universal language. We all dream whether we remember it or not.
https://www.huffingtonpost.com/dreamscloud/meaning-of-dreams_b_4504512.html
We got talking about dreams at the dinner table the other night and Middle One said he writes his down on his phone every morning when he wakes up. He has 130 so far. He's looking for recurring themes but can't find any. His stress dream is running through a labyrinth pursued by a minotaur-type monster and when he looks back he's actually being pursued by himself. I guess you could call that a classic. Youngest said he doesn't have dreams, but he only means he doesn't remember them. My most recurring dream is not having revised for my 'O' Level geography exam and it's tomorrow. I have no idea why it's geography when in life I got a B and my real problem was maths. My regular dreams are not having any clothes on when I'm delivering a speech, not being able to get through on the telephone when it's an emergency, and flying. When flying I take off from the roof of the house and have to concentrate really hard to stay up. Despite sometimes dipping and skimming the surrounding roof tops I can usually fly quite far. The other day for no apparent reason I dreamt I was getting it on with Tom Hiddleston, and I don't even like Tom Hiddleston. I guess we can't be held accountable for our subconscious.
Sorry if I'm boring you. They do say listening to someone describe a dream is the most boring thing ever but then I guess you're not actually listening, you're reading, and you don't have to read this if you don't want to. In fact, if I'm boring you you know what you can do... you can take a running jump.
Middle One's
friend, who was with us at the dinner table and who is a brilliant trumpet
player - https://soundcloud.com/zenelmusic ,
said his recurring stress dream is having his trumpet with him and having to get it to the other side of a busy motorway. I thought that was pretty funny.
Bassoon missing
It reminded me of my friend Susie at school and her huge bassoon. It was taller than she was. She had to carry it to school for orchestra practice once a week when she was in Year 7 (except we called it the first year in those days). It was so heavy she could only take a few steps before stopping to rest. One day she called in at the Co-op to buy crisps to supplement her otherwise horribly healthy packed lunch and when she arrived at school realised she'd left it in the shop.
said his recurring stress dream is having his trumpet with him and having to get it to the other side of a busy motorway. I thought that was pretty funny.
It reminded me of my friend Susie at school and her huge bassoon. It was taller than she was. She had to carry it to school for orchestra practice once a week when she was in Year 7 (except we called it the first year in those days). It was so heavy she could only take a few steps before stopping to rest. One day she called in at the Co-op to buy crisps to supplement her otherwise horribly healthy packed lunch and when she arrived at school realised she'd left it in the shop.
Fair Game
Speaking of motorways, the car in which Eldest was coming home from university for Easter hit a pheasant in the fast lane outside Exeter. He said there were feathers everywhere. They had to stop on hard shoulder and call the AA. The AA man turned up and pulled it out of the radiator. It was still warm, its guts hanging out like creamy threads of macaroni. Eldest refused to eat poultry all over Easter as
a result. I had to make him his favourite instead: moules mariniรจ.
Love E x
@DOESNOTDOIT
P.S. In case you were wondering the bassoon was still in the Co-op.
I hit a pheasant once at 50mph on a wooded Hampshire road, he and I had nowhere to go, and I didn't toot my horn lest he fly up and hit the windscreen. A heavy thump, a cracked numberplate and an almost cartoon-esque ball of feathers in the rear view mirror. A horrible but quick end for Fergus, I found some feathers behind the radiator a year later. I left him to the buzzards.
ReplyDeleteMany years on, I had a crow hit the windscreen right in front of my face at 70mph on the way to Cornwall, a crow-shaped crazed pattern was left on the windscreen by that rather dopey specimen of an intelligent species, who fluttered up from a gully presumably unsighted. An enormous thump, but praise be to Saint Gobain, the glass held. Mind you, the 'replacement' windscreen service was useless at that point, no appointments for 4 days, no depots to visit, it's all mobile and low cost now.
For vivid dreams, I recommend a glass of Tawny Port.
You are so lovely. x
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