Last night I had the strangest dream…

Some dreams you can only remember in fragments, they are fleeting and ethereal, disappearing like smoke in the dawn light. Then others are so vivid they are like appearing in a blockbuster movie with 3D glasses on.

Early this morning I had one of the latter dreams. I know it was early morning because I’d drifted back to sleep after an early morning toilet visit! Too much information I know, but when you get to a certain age – hahaha

sunrise or sunset?

In my dream I was in a High Street and I spotted a Marks and Spencers, this was not any ordinary dream but an M and S one.

The entrance didn’t give much headroom, I felt like I had to duck to go in, however did taller people manage to shop there, but the entire front of the store took you down some steps leading you to a spacious basement display.

Much of it didn’t appeal and I walked past, but then I found some live models at the back of the shop wearing some vintage garments that were for sale. Only I didn't know they were live until one moved.

One lady was wearing a burnt orange pinafore dress, with a stripy blouse underneath. The blouse included a large exuberant bow tied at the neck.

The price ticket for the outfit read £49. A real bargain for something so bespoke. I asked to try it on.

I was led upstairs to the eaves of the building where there were some very tiny, dubiously shaped, fitting rooms, very little headspace yet again, was there a toilet in there too? 

As I got changed I spotted that the label was an original St Michael's - this was the real deal as far as vintage fashion was concerned.

Once dressed I was allowed onto the rooftop to strut my stuff and get a feel for the ensemble. There must have been mirrors but I was more taken in by the view, a landscape akin to the chimney sweep scene in Mary Poppins but without the soot and bad cockney accents.

I admired myself in the dress, made from a scratchy wool gaberdine fabric, and blouse, as soft as silk, which went some way to mitigate the prickles of the dress.

I dropped my gaze and caught sight of the price tag, hand written and pinned with a safety pin.

Whereas I’d originally spied the price of £49 it had now increased to three figures. More than a little bit beyond my budget.

However, it was a dress with pockets and all of us know the true value of a pocket in a dress is almost priceless, but as I stuck my hands in I could feel the texture of scrunched up tissues. 

Now it’s all well and good when it’s your own pocket and you know the provenance of where they have come from, but a stranger’s tissues – eugh!

I withdrew my hand quickly, the price on the dress now read an incredible four figure sum.

And there the dream ended.

I’m sure there must be a lesson in there somewhere about price rises, the demise of the High Street, remembering to remove things from pockets before you donate them?

If you have any thoughts, please feel free to add a comment.

Or have you had a weird dream recently that you remember vividly? Please share.

 

I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

Three Cheers for Middle-Aged Women!

 In the past week I have seen two new movies with the main characters played by middle-aged women – I am in shock, well Halloween is on the horizon I suppose.

Joking aside, how refreshing to see first Lesley Manville in Mrs Harris Goes to Paris and then Sally Hawkins in The Lost King.

Mrs Harris is incredibly put upon by her numerous employers. To them she is merely a cleaner, but they trust her with keys to their houses and all manner of secrets besides. She goes about her duties with a smile, always thinking of others. Until one day, with a bit of financial good fortune she decides to fly to Paris and buy a Dior dress. Not quite as simple as she suspects, lugging an empty suitcase with her and expecting to complete her purchase in time for her flight home.

The story started as a novel by Paul Gallico, who co-incidentally wrote the novel of the Poseidon Adventure, useless fact I know, but I found it intriguing.

There wasn’t a REAL Mrs Harris, although many of the characters working at Dior are based on real people of the time.

Anthony Fabian the director of the latest film adaptation says in Town and Country magazine “The key to this story is that it is magic realism, so it has to have an equal dose of magic and reality. If you go too far into magic, you won’t believe it; if you go too far into the realism, it wouldn’t have that uplifting fairy tale quality.”

The Lost King is a true story about Philippa Langley’s determination in searching for and eventually finding the body of King Richard III in a Leicester City car park. The film is also told with much magical realism as Langley interacts with the deceased monarch who sits on the bench outside her bedroom window. He only speaks to her once she has asked him a pertinent question.

Just like Ada Harris, Philippa comes up against great hurdles in her quest. She is not an esteemed academic and she dares to question authority, believing Shakespeare’s account of the king is grossly unfair Tudor propaganda. The Richard III Society are seen as a bit of a crackpot bunch but it is their crowdfunding that really gets the project underway. Only once the excavation is successful do the University get fully on board.

With a bit of Googling I have just found in the Telegraph that one of the academics is vowing to sue the Hollywood producer for their reckless portrayal of him. Boo hoo!

I am not interested in what’s totally true or not, the important thing to me is that both films are great stories of tenacity with inspiring female leads of an age that is usually unrepresented. Here are two “invisible” women who have the audacity stand their ground – horray!

Mrs Harris has a more sugary ending, I came out of the cinema euphorically happy, just as you should at the end of a fairy tale. With The Lost King I admit I shed a tear as Philippa continued until the bitter end to battle academia and the bigwigs with money who only wanted the prestige. She wanted to find her King and put the record straight.

Mission accomplished ladies – now three cheers for us middle-aged women everywhere!

And while the world is listening, let’s tell our own stories.

The A - D of Planning

 A is for A Team - Hannibal Smith loved it when a plan came together.

B is for Baldrick, with the aid of Black Adder he hatched many a cunning plan.

Plan C – was the name of a cat in the Australian soap opera Sons and Daughters.

 

Like Hannibal I love a good plan that runs to clockwork, unfortunately successful plans are a scarce commodity in the modern age.

I used to be good at making plans, or at least I believed I was, I derived pure joy from putting my schemes into practice, a few even worked out to some degree! Maybe it was all just day dreaming but it was so much fun.

After Andrew died a friend suggested I abandon my meticulous ideas of what the future would look like and go with the flow instead.

It didn’t come naturally but after many years of dented expectations it became easier to let go.

After having cancer, I threw everything in the air. Brexit, Covid and everything that has followed since has blown away any hope I had of having the life I once wished for.

Welcome to the world of no plans.

It’s quite frankly depressing, I need something to look forward to and even the tentative schemes are held so lightly now, I almost plan for them to come crashing down. I give a hollow laugh “I told you so!”

November wobbles have arrived too early this year, the news for the future is bleak, no one has a plan anymore.

It feels as if we are going “through a rice pudding in a mini-sub”, one of Andrew’s expressions that seems rather apt just now, especially as I hate rice pudding, the milky smell of it, the lumpy texture -yuk!

But I don’t want to leave my thoughts here, I need a way out, to find some hope to keep me going through what will inevitably be a long, cold winter.

I’ve planted tulips and onions this week, is that enough to hope for? Can I hold on ‘til Spring?

For more immediate sparkle Strictly is on TV tonight. Perhaps I need to get swept up in a Strictly daydream, the one where I am a “celebrity” and get asked to appear.

Not really a plan but a great distraction, which reminds me I started writing this poem the other day, scuttles over to Facebook to find it for you....

Perhaps plan D should be DANCE? 

Just forget the news, the dashed dreams, all the worries and cares, instead move my feet, shake my hips, wriggle into that comfortable spot in the sofa and watch the magic happen!

 

 

            My hair and make-up completed,

       I open the dressing room door,

       Here is my partner, so handsome!

       We’re ready to take to the floor.

 

       My Argentine Tango would dazzle,

       My waltz would be sure to delight,

       My Charleston would be cheeky,

       My foxtrot the best of the night.

 

       I'd throw myself in at the deep end.

       Be a generous, friendly celeb.

       But my fame is only imagined

       So, I'll just have to watch it instead! 

The Missing Piece

I didn’t have the best night’s sleep last night. I was awake between 4 and 5 ish listening to a book on audible (This is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay – very funny but a little bit rude, so not for the faint hearted. My old bookclub read it last year and a friend recommended the audible version read by the author.  He has a pleasant voice but I was giggling too much for it to be of any soporific value).

When I did sleep, I had the most peculiar and vivid dreams.

In the first one I somehow acquired a cat, unimaginatively, for me, I named it Cat-ling. (My brother has a cat called Catia and I used to have a penpal with a rabbit called Rabbit – not very strange and sadly all true!)

I think I might have rescued the cat, and on a whim, brought it home, I was certainly ill prepared for owning one. I had no food for it and no where for it to do its business. When I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, in my dream, I discovered it had pooped on the doormat by the back door.

I added litter tray and “new” doormat to my shopping list.

My sister-in-law and nephews were also in my house but I never did establish why.

The second dream took place in our first marital home and somehow Andrew was back from the dead. I definitely hadn’t gone back in time.

I discovered him preparing walls in the bedroom for re-decorating.

“What colour are you painting it?” I enquired. After all colour is my forte.

“Blue.” A bit avant guard for the man who painted the whole house Magnolia!

“But I can choose the shade of blue?” This was of course acceptable, I was thinking a muted blue grey colour, “I could even move back in with you if you like?” I dropped casually into the conversation.

Well he has been dead over nine years, I’m not sure if it would be more of a shock for me or him to be sharing a bed together after all this time.

I acknowledged I’d got rid of the wardrobes since he’d died and we’d moved, “but that will give us more space in here and we can get some new wardrobes and put them down stairs for our clothes.” (We had an upside down split level house, that really isn’t as weird as it sounds.)

I was obviously also acknowledging that the boys had moved on and we had space to play with.

It must have been about this point I woke up; it was almost 9am!

Pondering my night-time adventures, I wrote them down on Facebook – well why not get the opinions of my 200 or so friends. Or just 6 or 7 who wanted to join in the fun!

“What’s missing in my life?”

The responses were, I should get a cat – no chance – too much responsibility and looking around the kitchen I have no where for a litter tray!

Someone else suggested I’d been eating too much cheese, but casting my mind over what I ate yesterday I had NONE – unusual for me, does the lack of dairy in your diet also stimulate your sleeping brain?

No one so far has suggested I need a new man in my life – hahaha – good job I’ve given up with that fantasy then. Not quite sure where I’d fit him in – although I’ve not really utilised the loft space since moving in – something else to ponder when I can’t sleep!

So in conclusion - it will be just me, without a cat from now on. As if there was any doubt…

But I do need a new doormat by the back door, and a bit of paint on the walls might be nice – maybe in the end that’s ALL I’m really missing!

The Shadow Child

How many stories begin with the words, last night I had a dream?

Recently I’ve been having dreams that are so real I wake already tired as I start the day.  But most fade into a distant haze as I get up. A vague memory you can’t quite grasp.

Last night I had a dream that has made me want to write it down, an all too rare occurrence these days, a desire to write strong enough to get me out of bed at 5 a.m. to find my laptop.

I was driving, along a road I know reasonably well and it was getting dark.

Suddenly I was aware of shadows in front of me, flitting silently in the dusk.

Kids on bikes, out too late with no lights on, I slowed down as they wove a dangerous path. I stopped as I reached a junction, a bus swung round the corner. Most bikes sped on their way but the driver of the bus hadn’t seen them all in the dark, he clipped the final one, the bike ended on its side, a child tumbled to the ground in front of me.

Our eyes met, although he was a shadow child with no whites to his eyes. He picked up a helmet that I have no memory of him wearing before, he placed it on his head and there were no straps to secure it. He was aware he needed it, remembered some warning he was told long ago but he arose unscathed and rode off to join his friends as if nothing had happened.

There are lights at that junction and they must have turned green because it was my turn to go. The bus had disappeared ahead of me but I soon caught up to the bikes again, weaving as carelessly as before, accident forgotten.

I slowed but the car behind me wasn’t so patient, he never caused an accident but I was aware how dangerously close he followed. I was almost as if he’d not seen me.

Did the shadow child turn round and glare?

The dream shifted gear, I woke up and maybe I would have turned over and gone back to sleep, 4:44 is far too early! But inevitably I needed a wee.

As I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers around me it struck me what was really bothering me about the dream.

There were no lights, I’m guessing there was moonlight or something to create the shadows, but there was no red or green glow from the traffic lights, no glare of headlights from the other vehicles on the road.

The car behind me failed to see me in the dark, in the same way I struggled to see the shadows in front of me.

I was driving a dangerous path with no lights on. And I was not the only one.

Was this really just a dream?

Or a warning from the shadow child?

Last night I dreamt of Andrew...

Last night I dreamt of Andrew. It happens very rarely but last night he disturbed my sleep.

 

He returned to us from beyond the grave and disturbed my world.

He came in, took one look at our “chaotic” existence and quite literally moved the furniture in the house around to suit his own needs.

He couldn’t understand why we had changed things, why things no longer worked the way he had planned them to.

Slightly rattled I woke early, decided to get up and make a cup of tea, the panacea for all ills, particularly at half six in the morning.

I climbed back into bed and read for a while to stop my mind from wandering. I don’t want my thoughts to drift in this direction. I’m already in a fragile state.

I like to think of Andrew looking down at us with a benevolent smile on his face, proud of all we’ve achieved. Although I confess in the early days I still worried what he would think about the things I did. I know I do lots differently but people tell me we are doing well.

It’s nearly 5 years since I’ve been doing “this” solo. I won’t say it necessarily gets any easier.

Quite often I long for someone to put their loving arms around me and hold me tight – but I have youngest son to snuggle on the sofa with and given half a chance he would never let me go. A ploy to extend bedtime he has never quite grown out of.

Meanwhile our house is quieter than ever as oldest son is off at Uni – forging ahead with his own path.

As I keep saying some things change and others just stay the same.

Here I sit in the same too big house, with the big lawn surrounded by such magnificent trees.

And once more its autumn and the leaves are falling down, weeping for a time that’s lost.

And that’s the other bit of the dream - as Andrew moved the furniture and re-wired the speakers so I could listen to a CD once more, I caught a glimpse out of the window, there were fewer leaves on the lawn and maybe they were mixed with a scattering of bright red poppies.

I gazed wistfully, pondering and letting everything wash over me. Holding “same” and “different” in my head.

After reading for a while I knew it was time to get up. The radio alarm had gone off and a new day had arrived.

It would be all too easy to pull the covers over my head and hide, but I’ve not got this far by shutting myself away from the world.

So I carry on, towards Friday 13th, the fifth anniversary, knowing that if I hear a bump in the night, it’s probably just Andrew re-arranging the furniture!

I’ll put it back where I like it in the morning!!!