Nightmares

Generally, I’m not given to nightmares. Nor do I possess my family’s (well, my mother and sister’s) trait of emitting blood-curdling screams in the middle of the night.

When I dream, it’s usually rather random. For example, my recurring anxiety dream revolves around packing. Sometimes I’m on holiday and about to miss a flight; in more intense times there’s Gestapo at the door and I’m trying to choose my most treasured possessions… I’m a special person.
What I love is when reality clashes with dreams in a rather peculiar fashion. The other night, I dreamt I was in Southampton with friends (already weird, not been to that city in years) and needed to drive back to London. Some friends (my wise friend and her husband specifically) needed a lift to Winchester, so the idea was that I’d drive them there and drive on to London. Then reality kicked in – I realised that I’m still only a learner driver and therefore:
(i) I can’t drive without another driver in the car.
(ii) I can’t drive on motorways.
So, in my dream I’m panicking about how to get to London without breaking the law while also remembering that in my last lesson I still wasn’t that good at stopping properly… I re-told this dream to my driving instructor on Monday and he visibly shifted away from me in his seat, probably yet again wondering why he took me on as a pupil!

Then last night I had a dream that left me in a cold sweat and a heightened state of anxiety about a meeting I’ve got tomorrow (which incidentally, I wasn’t particularly concerned about). It involved a ferocious Bishop and an evil Archdeacon – eerily reminiscent of the Archdeacon in controversial comedy Rev. Oh, and my mother turned up too – very bizarre. I honestly couldn’t tell you what actually happened, but whatever it was it wasn’t pleasant. Who knew I’d ever end up having nightmares about members of the clergy? Clearly it’s what happens when you work for the church.

Who knows what will fill my dreams tonight, but please, no more nightmares, my nerves just can’t hack it.

Did I just say that out loud?!

“I often dream that I’m pregnant, but I can never work out who the father might be…”

That sentence really should have stopped before ‘but’, however, the words came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them – or the raucous laughter that greeted this statement.

To explain:
I was at a dinner party last night with various colleagues and talking about a dream I’d had a couple of days ago in which I’d dreamt that the colleague sat next to me was pregnant. Someone asked if I knew who the father of this baby was, but I didn’t. We got talking about weird dreams and I mentioned that I go through phases of dreaming that I’m pregnant, which was when the sentence above was uttered.

Of course, I simply meant that the identity of the father is never revealed to me in the dream – not that I’m such a slut that the father could be anyone!!

Nevermind. It’s all part of the trials of being me, where so many things I say are deliberately misconstrued by my friends for comic effect. I can’t even begin to explain how ‘magic pants’ became a phrase of the evening…I was simply trying to be helpful!

Dream reading

A couple of days ago, I woke up having had the weirdest dream.

I’m no stranger to weird dreams. (Over the last year or so I’ve had a series of dreams where I’ve been pregnant/giving birth which have been extremely odd. And no, there’s no chance I might be pregnant.) Although they’re definitely not as bizarre as the larium induced dreams my mate Ian (currently residing in Mozambique, hence the larium) seems to have from time to time.

In the case of this particular dream, it wasn’t so much what happened, but who was involved. The characters in my dream (of which I was one) mostly originated from some of my favourite blogs! How’s that for weird in the extreme?

It didn’t include any of the people I actually know in real-life – the friends’ whose blogs I use to keep track of their lives and musings – but revolved around the families in America whose blogs I read just as a distraction from work.

Blogs are addictive. Having a 9-5 that’s not particularly taxing means that I need plenty of things to divert me for a couple of minutes and blogs are a perfect way of doing that. The ‘American blogs’ (as I like to refer to them) are largely accounts of various families with kids, so they’re cute and full of lovely stories and photos. Living in London in an area with nil community, I kind of get my family fix vicariously through these blogs.

So when these kids showed up in my dream it was weird, because I knew their names and what they get up to. Equally, the families knew me, having read my blog. (This isn’t actually true in real life, depending on how good their analytics are they may have no idea some crazy British chick is cyber-stalking them!)

Bizarrely, the only other non-blog person there was my vicar. No idea what that’s supposed to mean, but in the past he’s only shown up in dreams that were a little, well, prophetic. Not sure that this dream falls into that category.

It did make me think though.

In some ways I’d love to get to know some of these people whose lives I read about. Like the Blonde Renstroms, who sound lovely – they’ve just had their second baby and seem to work with an exciting church.

But also, what kind of an impression do I give through this blog?? A lot of it’s rather sarky (I suppose that’s a fair reflection of how I generally behave) but doesn’t really reflect my true inner serious, intellectual, spiritual centre… (Ok, I can hear you laughing already. Stop.)

Honestly, is this blog me? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s not, and maybe that’s why, deep in blog-space, there’s an anonymous blog which tells the real story…

[I’ve got you intrigued now, haven’t I? Excellent!]