After my recent hospital stay I wasn’t initially remembering my dreams but within a few days I was and this time they were almost IMAX like in scale but oddly largely silent or very muted like the sound of an early talking picture. Clearly medications and certain drugs can either enhance or suppress the dream state.
Dreaming In The Home Counties
Returning home, pain killers in hand and I’ve only just started having vivid dreams though for the first time in ages I can’t remember the whole experience, just small fragments. The latest dreamscape finds me in a world of chaos (no change there then) with order breaking down in the streets and cities of old blighty.
Panic On The Streets Of London
A mundane trip to the supermarket (because even in the event of civil unrest you’ve got to get the shopping done, right?) was a rat run of mortar fire and getting through an army ringed checkpoint around the supermarket (I had to take my passport and food and water was rationed).
In this dream it’s all a bit of a blur. Dodging small arms fire, the sound of large explosions far away (all a bit like Iraq on the beige housing estates of England). The local church was acting as a hostel for those that had lost their homes in the fighting.Frightened children’s faces peered out from a window but were pulled away by adults to a safer inner area of the church.The church had speakers fixed to the outside and was blaring out tacky pop hits of the 70’s and 80’s as a kind of bizarre war zone distraction, moral boosting exercise or maybe just to allow the homeless to pinpoint their refuge location.
Through The Barricades
A group of us made our way along the back alleys to our homes on the outskirts of the fighting and my heart froze as I could see a tall man hiding in our doorway. Expecting the worst I crouch by a hedge and try to make out his intentions.Nearby are burnt out cars (one of them is the shell of the selfish Prius owner who used to steal my parking space, so fleetingly I’m thinking there must be some justice in this new world order). A strangely familiar voice calls out that it’s OK and beckons me to complete the journey to the doorway whilst he covers me with a small automatic machine gun. I make a run for it and small arms fire rings out. I collapse gasping for breath in the doorway, spilling some of my shopping onto the path.
“Oh dear” says the stranger in a Cornish accent, expressing mock concern. I look up amazed to find that the stranger is Tommy Cooper, complete with Fez but carrying an automatic weapon.”Got any cheese?”, he asks eagerly and inquisitively and in a way that makes me smile and somehow feel a bit safer.
And then I woke up.
Prescription drugs.They’ve got a lot to answer for.