Last night, in between being crushed by a furry husband, crucified by an unforgiving mattress, rendered osteopathically challenged by my pillows and learning how to climb a mountain, I also had some dreams.
I am amazed I had time. I don’t know how I managed to pack them in, being as how I distinctly remember being awake, pisssed off and icicle clad for large parts of the night.
Nevertheless, my weird geographical hoppings continue in my rich and troubling dream life.
Last night I spent quite some time trying to get back from Uni. I went on the bus to Aberystwyth from where I was due to catch the train. I arrived at what is most definitely Aberystwyth train station (in both real and dreaming life). I went to purchase my ticket. The ticket booth woman said that I had to pay extra for a guaranteed ticket that would take me home via Aberystwtyth because it would be ‘safer’ for me. I pointed out that I was already in Aberystwyth, so I would not need to go via there at all. She looked at me like I was a total dullard and repeated herself until I gave in and bought a ticket.
I hopped on the train and we set off. The next station up from Aberystwyth is Borth. Borth is a hell hole. Nobody in their right mind would visit it. I remember thinking this as we sped past it. I turned to get something out of my bag, only to find that I was on a school coach trip in Paris.
We were just passing the Eiffel tower which someone had kindly clad in cream coloured metal roses and black netting, to liven it up, when I got a text message. It was from my cousin Tom. It said: ‘You had better get home quickly. They’re knocking down one of the council houses in Byron Street and if we’re fast we can go and salvage all the architecture.’ It never occured to me to question why the council wouldn’t do this themselves, why there would be anything worth salvaging from a nineteen fifties council house, and what we were going to do with this stuff when we had it.’ I just mentioned it to everyone else on the bus and the driver picked up speed.
He picked up speed so quickly that in the blink of an eye we were travelling round a ring road that looked remarkably like the hideous system just outside Swindon, and were staring up at a brewery that is just outside Burton on Trent. Apparently this was ‘home’. I was very pleased we were so near, because Tom had just sent me a photo of him and his girlfriend sitting on a pile of rubble holding a fire surround and looking very pleased with themselves.
It was at this point that I woke up, pinioned under Jason for the eighteenth time. It was seven thirty and I decided that after such a busy night I might as well get up and have breakfast. I was never going to get that vintage front door after all.
Hmmm…
