“… Believe me, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, more boring than people wanting to describe their dreams to you … Trust me on this, it kills relationships stone dead. The day one partner wakes up and starts saying ‘It was amazing, there was this rabbit in a bowler hat cooking an omelette…’ that’s when love dies.” Scaramouche, We Will Rock You.
But, I’m going to anyway. Just in time for the weekend, I woke up on Friday morning with an intense sore throat. You know what that means? A cold coming. And, as expected, throughout the day, my nose got snifflier and sorer and sneezier. I hate the feeling of knowing that I’m gonna get sick and there’s nothing I can do about it. Anyway, I don’t actually feel too bad, a bit woozy, but it’s mostly my nose that’s stuffed up. This, of course, results in a lack of ability to breath, which results in a lack of sleep. Or bizarre dream-filled sleep. So, here you go.
Dream One: I’m waiting for a train, but the world is being taken over by sea life. The tracks fill up with water and there are giant fish everywhere. I try and hide in the toilets, but a giant penguin comes in and eats me. I wake up at 2am.
Dream Two: I’m James Bond. I’m in a plane and we’re just about to land, so to show off, I parachute out of the plane and land successfully. But then I spot that my plane is actually taxiing and taking off again. I try and catch up with it, fall out of a hot air balloon and get crushed by a blimp. Wake up at 4am.
It’s the first time I’ve ever actually died in a dream, and I died in two dreams in one night. After another couple of hours sleep and another bizarre but less memorable dream, I’ve decided to give up with the sleep and sit around and wait for the Grand Prix.