I listened to a snoring special on Women's hour the other day with my dad, but because it was on radio seven I thought the whole thing was a weak BBC self-satire. Anyway, on to the dream.
It's a beautiful, sunny morning and I have just awoken from a mad-fun dreaming experience, the last of which I forgot (except that it had a nine-storey train and Mr. Evans and Richard Bob-Semple in it.) This being the case, I thought it would be a good idea to log my dreams here for safekeeping and public display. No psychoanalysis allowed, all you psychology studying bozos.
The Dream:
The dream starts vaguely, in some kind of marble lined skyscraper. Some important and rich looking suited people push me down a monolithic marble pit. It's a big old pit for killing people, and I hit the bottom and all my bones go 'crunch', but I'm still kind of fine. There are other people there I know, but I can't remember who they are. Possibly Josh Scott. We're all vaguely surprised (I am hard to impress in dreams) by not being dead, because we all fell down the same chute of tasteful polished décor and are all equally alive (however alive that may be). We hear voices coming and consider hiding, but realise that there's little point because we're several stories into a massive skyscraper that's made predominantly of glass. The people who pushed us into the pit approach, but apparently they can't see us. They get quite close and still are oblivious to our presence. It becomes apparent that our recent engagement with the smooth, hard shiny floor has left us semi-dead and mostly unnoticeable, just like death in Terry Prachett's books. A large black man shouts some irrelevant and non verbal utterances, seemingly crazed. He then offers his hand to anyone willing to take it. No, my subconscious is not racist, my subconscious loves Bizz Markie. (This song was put to woeful shame by Mario's tragic ballad about being friend zoned by girls who love invading personal space.)
Anyway, back to the dream. I think I literally said, in a really excited voice 'Bizz, is that you?' and he was like 'Yeah.' So I took his hand, but was pretty scared, so I asked him, Scrooge style, if we would be flying by magic or just by holding on. It was worth asking, his hands were very clammy. He said it was by magic, so I took his hand and he proceeded to throw me to the ground, kick me through some glass railings and dangle me over a huge drop while I screamed in fear. He pulled me back up and we all laughed at what a good joke that had been. Then we were in a big hall full of tables.
The big hall was dimly lit and had old boring people sitting at its tables. For some reason there were lots of sweets about (probably because I'd served tuck for five or ten minutes the night before at youth). I passed by one of the tables and whisked away a packet of Minstrels on the sly, something I could do with ease because we were still in sort-of-dead mode. Then my deep-rooted resentment of anyone not in year 13 hijacked the dream seat and any next year 10 bozo boy took the LP out of the sound system and bumped clumsily into the DJ. Startled by his idiocy, someone with us shouted at him, but then people noticed the shouter and more of us shouted at him, only to evoke further panic from both the ageing aristocrats who's party we had somehow invaded and my previously unnoticed friends. Shouting and flustering ensued, and I resolved to run into a big pile of cushions, bury myself and be very quiet. Every man for himself, says I. Chrissy Lamont seems to have a limited understanding of this concept, and comes over to my location to make weird whiny girl noises. We all had to calm her down, and then James Revell (good lad) came over and informed me that it was safe to emerge from my cushion fortress. At this point we all decided to leave.
I was a little ahead of everyone on the way out, and a little ahead of me was Izzie Keane, who had decided that running through uncannily foggy underground tunnel type structures by herself in the dark was a great idea. A continuing theme throughout all my dreams would appear to be that girls are stupid. All of them, every last one, is unthinkably stupid, apparently. Anyways, I run after Keane, because nobody's getting stabbed on my watch (or lack thereof). I'm running down a dark, open road, and I wish I'd taken a head torch. Turns out I have taken a head torch. Gotta love dreams. I climb a very tall fence very quickly. Because this is a dream, I experience no fatigue and am very impressed with myself.
Turns out Keane's taking an elaborate short cut to get to the same place as everybody else that involves disguising as Harry Potter, Ron Weasely and Hermoine Granger succesively and sneaking around what is half council estate, half waterless marina full of boats. That first bit is a bit weird, because I don't really care about Harry Potter and his pals at all, so their turning up in my dream is pretty random. I effortlessly disguise myself (much like the spy) as Ron Weasely and slink through the back door of his part of the council estate. On the way out of his house, I notice a large air conditioning unit above his front door that has been playing the music that's been going for the last few minutes of the dream. I recall marvelling at how the sound could travel so well and have such a constant volume from the other side of a building. I proceed to run through a dusty array of grounded boats, one of which is Hermoine Granger's house. As we all know, Hermoine lives on a dilapidated and out of use sea vessel. Upon seeing her house, I attempt to climb up it, but the bit I'm climbing on breaks, because I neglected (thankfully) to transform myself into Hermoine and thus am too heavy. I feel bad for breaking a part of her house, but use my epic dream physique (love dreams) to pull myself up at an obscure and challenging angle. Then I run along the top of the boat and jump over a fence, where I find Josh and Chris Scott, and some Indian guy. In hindsight, considering what I had just undergone was a short cut, I hate to think what they would have to have endured to get here. 'Where is here?', you ask. Why, here is a multicoloured flower mountain in India, of course. Where else would we be?
The flower mountain is not made of flowers, but is very floral. The paths are only really separated from the rest of the hill by colour, they are merely long, stripy stretches of flowers. A debate starts, with the random Indian guy stating that the flowers are put here individually by mysterious magic men, and Chris Scott informing him that the hill is horticulturaly engineered to produce certain colours of flower in certain places. After a while we reach a level, dusty bit which has paths lined with bamboo sticks that have translucent tarpaulin stretched between them. Water flows continuously down these sheets, though I'm not sure where it was coming from. We drink our fill and continue on our way. Then I wake up.
It's a beautiful, sunny morning and I have just awoken from a mad-fun dreaming experience, the last of which I forgot (except that it had a nine-storey train and Mr. Evans and Richard Bob-Semple in it.) This being the case, I thought it would be a good idea to log my dreams here for safekeeping and public display. No psychoanalysis allowed, all you psychology studying bozos.
The Dream:
The dream starts vaguely, in some kind of marble lined skyscraper. Some important and rich looking suited people push me down a monolithic marble pit. It's a big old pit for killing people, and I hit the bottom and all my bones go 'crunch', but I'm still kind of fine. There are other people there I know, but I can't remember who they are. Possibly Josh Scott. We're all vaguely surprised (I am hard to impress in dreams) by not being dead, because we all fell down the same chute of tasteful polished décor and are all equally alive (however alive that may be). We hear voices coming and consider hiding, but realise that there's little point because we're several stories into a massive skyscraper that's made predominantly of glass. The people who pushed us into the pit approach, but apparently they can't see us. They get quite close and still are oblivious to our presence. It becomes apparent that our recent engagement with the smooth, hard shiny floor has left us semi-dead and mostly unnoticeable, just like death in Terry Prachett's books. A large black man shouts some irrelevant and non verbal utterances, seemingly crazed. He then offers his hand to anyone willing to take it. No, my subconscious is not racist, my subconscious loves Bizz Markie. (This song was put to woeful shame by Mario's tragic ballad about being friend zoned by girls who love invading personal space.)
Anyway, back to the dream. I think I literally said, in a really excited voice 'Bizz, is that you?' and he was like 'Yeah.' So I took his hand, but was pretty scared, so I asked him, Scrooge style, if we would be flying by magic or just by holding on. It was worth asking, his hands were very clammy. He said it was by magic, so I took his hand and he proceeded to throw me to the ground, kick me through some glass railings and dangle me over a huge drop while I screamed in fear. He pulled me back up and we all laughed at what a good joke that had been. Then we were in a big hall full of tables.
The big hall was dimly lit and had old boring people sitting at its tables. For some reason there were lots of sweets about (probably because I'd served tuck for five or ten minutes the night before at youth). I passed by one of the tables and whisked away a packet of Minstrels on the sly, something I could do with ease because we were still in sort-of-dead mode. Then my deep-rooted resentment of anyone not in year 13 hijacked the dream seat and any next year 10 bozo boy took the LP out of the sound system and bumped clumsily into the DJ. Startled by his idiocy, someone with us shouted at him, but then people noticed the shouter and more of us shouted at him, only to evoke further panic from both the ageing aristocrats who's party we had somehow invaded and my previously unnoticed friends. Shouting and flustering ensued, and I resolved to run into a big pile of cushions, bury myself and be very quiet. Every man for himself, says I. Chrissy Lamont seems to have a limited understanding of this concept, and comes over to my location to make weird whiny girl noises. We all had to calm her down, and then James Revell (good lad) came over and informed me that it was safe to emerge from my cushion fortress. At this point we all decided to leave.
I was a little ahead of everyone on the way out, and a little ahead of me was Izzie Keane, who had decided that running through uncannily foggy underground tunnel type structures by herself in the dark was a great idea. A continuing theme throughout all my dreams would appear to be that girls are stupid. All of them, every last one, is unthinkably stupid, apparently. Anyways, I run after Keane, because nobody's getting stabbed on my watch (or lack thereof). I'm running down a dark, open road, and I wish I'd taken a head torch. Turns out I have taken a head torch. Gotta love dreams. I climb a very tall fence very quickly. Because this is a dream, I experience no fatigue and am very impressed with myself.
Turns out Keane's taking an elaborate short cut to get to the same place as everybody else that involves disguising as Harry Potter, Ron Weasely and Hermoine Granger succesively and sneaking around what is half council estate, half waterless marina full of boats. That first bit is a bit weird, because I don't really care about Harry Potter and his pals at all, so their turning up in my dream is pretty random. I effortlessly disguise myself (much like the spy) as Ron Weasely and slink through the back door of his part of the council estate. On the way out of his house, I notice a large air conditioning unit above his front door that has been playing the music that's been going for the last few minutes of the dream. I recall marvelling at how the sound could travel so well and have such a constant volume from the other side of a building. I proceed to run through a dusty array of grounded boats, one of which is Hermoine Granger's house. As we all know, Hermoine lives on a dilapidated and out of use sea vessel. Upon seeing her house, I attempt to climb up it, but the bit I'm climbing on breaks, because I neglected (thankfully) to transform myself into Hermoine and thus am too heavy. I feel bad for breaking a part of her house, but use my epic dream physique (love dreams) to pull myself up at an obscure and challenging angle. Then I run along the top of the boat and jump over a fence, where I find Josh and Chris Scott, and some Indian guy. In hindsight, considering what I had just undergone was a short cut, I hate to think what they would have to have endured to get here. 'Where is here?', you ask. Why, here is a multicoloured flower mountain in India, of course. Where else would we be?
The flower mountain is not made of flowers, but is very floral. The paths are only really separated from the rest of the hill by colour, they are merely long, stripy stretches of flowers. A debate starts, with the random Indian guy stating that the flowers are put here individually by mysterious magic men, and Chris Scott informing him that the hill is horticulturaly engineered to produce certain colours of flower in certain places. After a while we reach a level, dusty bit which has paths lined with bamboo sticks that have translucent tarpaulin stretched between them. Water flows continuously down these sheets, though I'm not sure where it was coming from. We drink our fill and continue on our way. Then I wake up.
