My blog is posted a tad late today because I managed to drop my iPad on the bathroom floor last night and the screen cracked the into tens of superficial spiders’ webs. It still works, but the screen is buggered.
Today I discover that Apple can’t replace the screen because the whole thing is a single unit. I have to buy a new iPad at a reduced price. It has all been terribly time-consuming.
So, instead of a blog today, here is a dream I had when I was eighteen:
I was on the River Thames where there was a large suspension bridge with large grey girders held together with big bolts. The water in the river was thrashing like a rough Atlantic storm. The individual waves were racing with each other – each wave unsuccessfully trying to play piggyback on the previous one, moving faster and faster from left to right.
There was a wind coming from somewhere; I couldn’t figure from where but, at the same time, I did know where it came from.
Look, it was a dream. What can I say?
We wondered where we were but I didn’t know who was with me.
Somewhere in among all this water, there was a country lane and wider roads. In colour. And I was in a car.
The car drove over and down a low hill and stopped between two fields of rich, golden corn. Then the car went through a very small wood further along. I seemed to know where the wood was but could not quite remember where.
My father was in the car. He said: “It’s because the corn is not quite good enough.”
I told him something about a school outing to a forest, but I knew that forest was not where we were now.
There was still a field of corn to the left of us.
When it ended, there was green, downy grass which, a little further along, met a slight slope.
Every geographical detail felt small, homely and warm: within hand’s reach.
About halfway between the rich, golden corn and the slight slope was a dark brown rabbit, sitting on its hind quarters with long, soft ears sticking gently up towards the sky. Just sitting there on the downy green.
When we got near to the rabbit, I had thought it would run away, but it did not. It just sat there looking at us, then scampered off up the hill.
We had a dog with us. It was large and black and white and rather dirty and squarish. Like a black-and-white St Bernard which was waist-high to my father.
“Oh no!” my father said.
He had slapped the dog on its rear and it had chased the rabbit up the slight green downy slope.
The dog chased and chased and chased the rabbit. Its jaws moved as it neared the rabbit’s rear haunches and I told someone to call him back.
My aunt said: “No-one can call him back now.”
And soon the rabbit and the pursuing dog were over the crest of the hill and had disappeared to the left of dark green trees and I was in a house.
Well, I was not in a house. It was a little wooden shack. A hut.
I was looking straight out through the open door onto the scene. I don’t know what the scene was, but I was looking at it. My mother was standing beside me, to my left.
A huntsman came over the top of the hill wearing his bright red huntsman jacket but with bright, clean, bright orange trousers. I thought fleetingly: “That’s odd.”
He rode down the hill on a horse and I shouted something at him. The sound reverberated in the small hut.
My mother, with a smile and mock courtesy asked the huntsman – who was now out-of-sight to my right – some question about which way to go or which way to get out.
Then we were out of the hut with a path leading away on our left and a path leading away on our right.
And then I woke up.
I have no idea what that dream from when I was eighteen means.
All suggestions from suitably qualified psychologists gratefully received.
Normal blog service will, I hope, be resumed tomorrow.
I lament the fact that I no longer remember my dreams.