Last night I had the worst dream...
It was possibly worse than when I dreamt I ran over and killed Kylie Minogue on my Raleigh Apple bicycle aged seven, which was probably brought about by the excitement of receiving the former's album in my stocking that year and finding the latter propped up against the Christmas tree on running downstairs that morning.
Anyway, this dream sadly was nothing like that. In fact recently I've been going to bed at 10.30pm and waking up at midnight, usually standing up, in a totally different room.
Two night's ago, i found myself in the kitchen. My dream had been about making toast. Thankfully I hadn't actually made toast.
But last night, I was lucky I didn't wake up in the middle of the street as I had a dream that a rogue policeman was in my house. In a scene worthy of a tense made-for-TV thriller (I know my imaginary limits here guys) I had let him into my flat before realising he was a dodgy cop. He was in the bathroom, I was behind the lounge door, wondering what to do. And then I made a dash for it - except it's quite hard to dash through my front door as it's got more locks than Fort Knox. And thank goodness it has, as otherwise, like I said, I might have found myself in my Primarni onesie making a complete spectacle of myself in west London.
Instead I woke up running across my bedroom. Running!! In a onesie. In my sleep. I can barely run when I am awake. Does this mean I actually run better in my sleep?
This sleep running away from the dodgy policeman was all going very well. In my dream I'd pegged it down the street, which didn't look like my street, to where a man was building walls with the plan to ask him for help. Except I didn't manage to get to him because I woke up, mid-stride, heart racing, after standing on an upturned plug.
Cue much hopping around the room, while trying to get a grip on the reality of the situation - me, now awake, in a onesie, foot hurting, but safe in my flat with no rogue coppers about.
'It must be time to get up,' I thought.
It was midnight.
'I must got back to sleep,' I told myself.
But my brain - working full speed on adrenalin - and foot - rather cross about the upturned plug - had other ideas.
As I lay awake, thinking over the dream, I remembered that in it, I hadn't been deaf.
This sometimes happens you see.
In my dream, I'd spied on the police officer through the crack in the lounge door. I'd heard him on his radio, listened to his chat, realised he was dodgy as hell and had a shouted conversation very successfully with him between rooms with absolutely no lipreading.
But as I lay there in the muted silence if my bedroom, I couldn't help but feel happy for the peace and quiet. No hum of traffic, no shouting from the idiots at the pub down the road, nothing. No real hearing as such. Hearing aids safely on the bedside table.
Just me, and silence, and my bloody throbbing foot.
So tonight, dear brain, if you're gonna dream, could it at least be a good, non-scary one please? Maybe set on a beach in the Caribbean?
That would be aces.
Have a good day peeps
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