The driving rain which accompanied us to school this morning was pathetic fallacy in real life.
None of us were keen.
I woke from an anxiety dream that I had to teach one of the boys in Year Six some survival techniques for some reason. Knowing the child in real life I feel that there are things he could teach me about survival, however, there we were. Surviving. Or not. It was hard work, because every time he turned to talk to me, his top lip curled up like an angry horse and he kept trying to bite me.
This, accompanied by the alarm clock – the harbinger of doom and the daily trials of every day routine – was a bit of a kicker.
I much preferred the dream I had on Friday night, where I was ensconced in a hotel bathroom with Benedict Cumberbatch, and he was kissing me…
It was a fine kiss.
Nor did he suddenly turn into a velociraptor or my mum, or die in a weltering pool of gore. Nope. Not at all.
It is, next to the snogging Jason in a car park dream, the best dream I have ever had in my life.
Even Jason was quite impressed when I told him about it, and he tends to get a bit huffy about things like that. I love him for the fact that he can get jealous of such things, as if it is indeed likely that at any moment the door bell will go, and there Benedict will stand, deerstalker in hand, demanding to take me to the nearest Travelodge for a tongue sarnie. I admire his belief in my charms – unlikely as it is that anything like this will ever happen.
The dreams I have that are most likely to come true, sadly, are the ones where I turn up for work clad only in a pair of wellingtons, clutching a micro pig and wondering where I have put the pipe I don’t smoke.