Every so often, I write a jokey letter to a company whose products made an impression. Here’s one to Eve Mattresses – finally, a sleep solution that doesn’t involve all those horrendous cloth pockets and springs.
One of my ultra-vivid dreams has just re-entered my head. Last night, I was teleporting! Both as an onlooker – was sitting at a table of four in a restaurant and was rocked by the rush of air filling the vacuum left as my neighbour teleported out – and as a teleportee myself.
Being teleported isn’t just a case of disappearing in one place and appearing in another, it seems. It feels like a giant hand has grasped you from behind and whisked you rapidly upwards, then you sort of crumble into a mass of particles like a swarm of blackfly which then do the whole dematerialising thing. The dream didn’t last long enough to find out where I went, though.
Another great dream. Last night was a romance scene from a mainstream movie: everything covered and one of those strange L-shaped duvets that only exist in cinema, you know, the type that covers the woman up to her neck but only the man up to his waist. Best of all, the female lead in this nocturnal movie was someone that I’d really like to be in that situation with.
The trouble is, the point of the scene was that she enjoyed being kissed in a certain place – on her right shoulder at the front above the breast – and the whole narrative revolved around what was special about this place. Let’s call it the M-spot.
But this raises a question: I really need to find out if the girl involved enjoys this in real life, since it’s not something I knew about her. But how do you ask? I mean, it’s not something you just come straight out with.
Wow! WHAT a dream last night. I was the tailgunner on some sort of ancient warplane, a Lancaster I think, and a shot from somewhere blew us outside the aircraft. There were four of us hanging on, gunning away, then falling off the plane as it approached a beachside town from the water.
Falling was exhilarating; I was in a decent arch, and all around me people were laughing, just like a real skydive. I had a strange kind of parachute, an umbrella-shaped thing I held with one hand, and it got me safely to the seashore… where I started running, because someone was chasing me. Free-running through alleys and back gardens, I got away. What a nocturnal adventure!
I’m taking it as a sign: after a year or so of sleeping mostly the same way everyone else does, I’ve started to dream again – my way. Vividly and strongly, with coherent narratives and dialogue that retain their form into the waking hours.
Last night it was, for some reason, about Hitler. I’d discovered some iron rods that drained evil out of people, so tricked Adolph into meeting me in an underground cavern and trapped him under the rods. Once all the evil had been sucked out of him, I threw him into a lake of fire – ooer, getting a bit religious-themed here or what? Technically I shouldn’t have done the last bit, since at that point he wasn’t evil any more, but there are some people that shouldn’t get off on technicalities.
I love dreaming; it assures me I haven’t wasted six or seven hours just lying there.
I’ve always had great dreams: vivid and well-scripted with a proper narrative. Last night’s was excellent: driving a yellow hummer across a desert with my sister following a cheetah, then stopping and getting out to watch her give birth to a basket of eggs. (The cheetah, not my sister.) But I’m a bit concerned about a dream last week featuring… Sarah Palin?
I mean, apparently she’s the most popular Halloween costume among Americans this year. But I’m a sucker for a stylish little black number (that black skirt-suit she wears a lot certainly does it for me) and there are few 44-year olds (especially those who’ve given birth five times) who could pull off the trick of looking both smart and sassy yet acting your age. Hmmm, it’s almost a pity I only date ten years younger these days. And believe in evolution rather than primitive superstitions. And am sane. (Sort of.)