Many years ago, when Jason and I were in the first throes of our peculiar courtship, I had a dream about him.
It was not my usual type of dream.
I generally have two standard types of dreams. The first sort, and sadly, the most common, are the screaming nightmares that make me sweat like a horse, and sometimes wake up screaming. Sometimes I don’t wake up, but still scream, and frighten the bejesus out of everyone – as per Friday night when I apparently reduced Tilly to tears because she thought I was being killed from across the landing.
The second sort is the bizarre celebrity dream in which I am doing odd things with random famousers, particularly those who I don’t really care for. The two standout dreams, which I believe I have mentioned on here several times, are the one where I had to play backing instruments for Johnny Cash when we did a gig in Folsom prison and his usual guy let him down, and the one where I had to dance with Bruce Forsyth.
The Jason dream, I am grateful to say, was actually rather nice.
It must be why I remember it. I hardly ever have rather nice type dreams.
The most vivid part involved us standing together in a car park, outside a church, where we kissed each other.
It was one of those spine tinglingly good kisses that sort of starts in your toes and works up until you feel rather faint, and need a sit down and a bun to revive you.
I hadn’t thought about it in ages until I was having a chat with a friend a few weeks back, and we were talking about the likelihood of dreams coming true.
Sadly it seems to be the case that dreams rarely come true.
I was mulling this over in a fairly melancholy way when I suddenly thought about my dream about Jason.
I realised that it was entirely possible that this dream could come true.
Particularly because the church where the swoonsome kiss happened is actually real, and one that I drive past every day on my way to and from school.
I mentioned to Jason that he had the wherewithal to make my dreams come true, and that what I wanted for Valentines day was for him to take me to the church car park and kiss me until my toes curled up.
He looked slightly bemused, but probably relieved that I didn’t ask him for a diamond as big as a pigeon’s egg and a cupboard full of Rupert Sanderson shoes.
Last Sunday, on our way back from the garden centre, he indicated, pulled into the church car park, and kissed me.
In my dream there wasn’t a car load of children, poking their head through the foliage like cheeky, voyeuristic monkeys, shouting words of encouragement. Nor was it whizzing it down with rain.
On the other hand, he can still make my toes curl up after all these years.