I had the weirdest, and I mean, weirdest, dream I can remember last night.
And do let us pause for thought here people. I do weird. Weird is fairly par for the course in this house.
So. Firstly I dreamed I was hanging out with this guy, who told me that Chris Tarrant had left us everything in his will, because he still felt bad about that time he killed Sally James on Tiswas, when a set of stairs fell on her head.
The dream segues to what looks like a huge antiques fair in an aircraft hanger. This, it turns out is, where Chris Tarrant kept all of his stuff. Including his collection of fox fur muffs, antique Victorian night dresses, and ivory netsukes. Which was as much of a surprise to me as it must be to you. It never occurred to me that Tarrant would be big into fox fur.
We are wandering about the aisles with the chap pulling open drawer after drawer of knick knacks and complaining that he didn’t know how Chris had managed to hide all this stuff from us for so long.
Then, as things in dreams do, the entire scene changed to a sandwich shop somewhere in the Cotswolds (I know it’s the Cotswolds because of the stone, right). We (me and a bunch of other people I seem to know) are inside the shop, buying sandwiches, which is normal. We depart the shop to find Benedict Cumberbatch sitting in a Sixties inspired perspex swivel chair on the pavement. Which is not normal.
We dive on him. (I totally get this bit).
We say that we have to keep him in the chair for an hour, in order to win a bet. It turns out we are The Famous Five, and we are in competition with him (presumably as Sherlock) over something, and this bet is part of it.
I’m just getting used to sitting on top of Benedict Cumberbatch, in a perspex chair, on a pavement in the Cotswolds, when the scene changes again.
Now we are on a beach.
Benedict tells me that Timmy the dog is not really Timmy the dog. The original Timmy was poisoned, and this is an impostor dog.
I am shocked, but unsurprised. It seems this sort of thing happens a lot.
I start to follow the impostor dog up the beach, with Benedict.
As we walk, a whole load of people dressed as penguins file onto the sand and start to dance together. Some sort of Tudor courtly dance by the look of it. No music, just the sound of flippers scraping across the sand.
Impostor Timmy turns to look at me and winks.
Benedict takes my hand and gently says: ‘Actually, that is the real Timmy. He’s the ghost of Timmy. He’s dead. Do you understand now?’
“No. ” is what I said.
Which is still true.