Cooksbridge Living

Since my first update I have dreamt about a seedy establishment in Brighton, a shameful rerun of my sister's wedding in Nottingham, and a depressing house party in Cooksbridge. None of these were sufficiently wholesome or engaging enough to write down. Last night's dream barely qualifies either, dealing as it does with incipient provincial affairs. However, it is a good establishing scenario.

I moved to Cooksbridge in 2019, and since then have had only a handful of dreams about the place, usually involving a haunting. These days, I am unworried about using real place names. My trolling days are long over and the threat level of undesirables tracking me down is low, especially if I can bore them to death first. Hopefully this dream can manage it.

I was new to the area, as were my neighbours, and we were attending social events to integrate ourselves with the community. In real life, Cooksbridge is a sleepy rural village with a low population. Farm shops, pubs, and a petrol station are the sole amenities. In the dream, the place was more of a bustling market village. It was mid summer, and the fields were green and gold.

The old guard were visiting me from Colchester, Dylan and Charlie, and we spent some time in Lewes looking for places to have breakfast. Back in Cooksbridge, we attended a farmer's market, which took place in the beer garden of a fictitious pub. I was dressed in an ornate, red silk suit, and many flat-capped, cider-sipping locals turned their heads in my direction. I was worried lest my friends got drunk and made a bad impression.

My neighbour Helen was also at the pub, and we had a long chat over a bottle of wine. The farmers seemed wary but intrigued about the presence of strangers in their midst. When it was time to leave, several of them came over to introduce themselves and to ask our names, crushing my hand with meaty, calloused handshakes. One of them, an aged gentleman farmer (we'll call him Bill) seemed particularly interested in Helen.

My sisters paid their visits to me next, and it's worth noting that my house was not the one I live in. It was a rambling country homestead surrounded by fields and orchards. As I sat in the open access garden, Bill passed by and beckoned me over for a chat. He asked many pointed questions about Helen, and I gleaned that he was sizing her up as a prospective wife. I tried to discourage him, but for some reason did not impart that she was already married.

When I talked to Helen again later in the dream, she complained of his unwanted attentions, but also claimed she was treading carefully. Bill was an influential, respected member of the community and she did not want her family to be ostracised so soon after moving there. I wished her luck and returned to my house. My eldest sister had arrived and we began to bicker over who would use the bathroom first. Sometimes dreams can be a little too realistic for my liking.