For example…

I’m on some kind of  televised archaeology expedition/competition.  It’s almost night and we’re scurrying through dark passages in derelict, crumbling, skeletal old buildings.  We’re just about to give up on one, when I uncover a rough wooden panel beneath the crusted grime that coats a corner of the room.  I tug at the soft fibrous timber and it splinters in my hand to reveal an opening, a door which leads into a room filled with the relics of another time.  Floral embossed tea pots.  Antimacassars.  Gas masks.  Photographs.

In the middle stands an old bed.  Large ornate lamps stand sentry on either side and everything is grey.  And I’m thinking, “Why would someone just completely board up a room in their house? Why would it be left untouched yet full, as if life stopped one day and when dust began to gather they drew the heavy curtains, turned off the lamps and tiptoed away?”  

It is an odd mixture of stifling Victoriana and World War II pipe, slippers and ration books.  As I sift through doilys, soft silken scarves, marcasite rings, a cameo brooch, I rest my hand on something cool and familiar.  A velvet swathe covered in hat pins of all shapes and colours, from a crisp delicate rose to a single pearl.  And I realise I am in the room of my Gran Dillon, and her husband, my grandad, who died when my Dad was just four.  

My Gran Dillon was widowed young and never remarried.  I always remember her as distant, stern and a little bit aloof, not in a ‘looking down her nose at the four boisterous grandchildren who had descended on her,’ sort of way, but like she was from another time, another world, and she found us puzzling and a little unsettling.  

And that’s how I felt when I woke up.

Weird.

Today’s was different though.  

I was driving a big red double decker London Bus, and had parked it in my children’s school car park as it wouldn’t fit in my drive.   Then I went to view an old house being sold by Hinge and Bracket .  It went on and on from unfathomably structured room to unfathomably structured room and it was filled with children doing various arts and crafts projects.

It seemed the women had forgotten I’d come to view the house but just wanted me to admire their collages and pet their innumerable small dogs.   When I finally decided to take control of the situation and go in search of bedrooms, I discovered an amazing roof terrace that was edged by a vast ocean held back by a wall of ice.  It was quite beautiful.  The sea had taken on the glassy hue of the ice and you could barely tell where it met the sky.  As I reached down to touch the frozen sea wall I remembered I was late picking Miss E up from school and needed to get to my bus within the next 10 minutes otherwise all the children would be late home.  

Then I woke up!

So come on?  What’s it all about people.  Any ideas?

Because I haven’t got the foggiest.   I mean if I was dreaming about my kids running around saying ‘oink’ a lot and playing in the mud I’d understand, but this lot just strikes me as odd.

Maybe my head is about to implode?

Or maybe I’ve been possessed by a ghostly war veteran bus driver who had a secret yearning for the sea and a penchant for ladies jewellery?

Or maybe it’s just my blumming hormones again. 

Tsk.

I’m off.  I think I need some wine.