I was hoping for a good Brighton dream because I enjoy exploring the city's dreamscape and Dadaist architecture. Last night's offering was quite stressful, but there were some incidents worth noting down. Chaos had engulfed Brighton, with anti-lockdown protests and parties springing up all over the city. The authorities were overwhelmed, shops and pubs were overtaken by rowdy punks and anti-vaxxers, whilst the streets crawled with rioters, drug addicts, radicalised beggars, and Chinese grifter gangs taking advantage of the disorder. I roamed these mean streets in the dark, avoiding people whilst trying to carry out obscure errands.
A female heroin addict beseeched me for money to feed and clothe her daughter, reaching skinny, puncture-addled arms towards me. I knew that this particular beggar really did have a neglected child confiscated by social services. A volunteer careworker would often take the kid swimming at the local baths, before lying on the hard tiles to dry off, looking at the stars and dreaming of a better life. I did not give the troubled mother any money, so she shouted obscenities at me, cursing my white male privilege. Next I was accosted by two shady middle-aged Chinese women. They were hustlers trying to sell contraband or trafficked prostitution services, I did not stick around to find out what.
Suddenly desperate for the toilet, I tried to enter a nearby bookshop but it had been turned into a rave venue, with people queuing from all over to get in. Farther on, I ducked into a less popular nightclub and finally secured an empty cubicle. The toilets were covered in graffiti and illuminated by green glowsticks, with two punks in the stall next to me doing drugs. Whilst I relieved my bladder, they stuck their heads up over the top and watched me. I had a full tank to empty and was a captive audience whilst they gloated. I then realised that I was stark naked, a cliche to be sure, and I spent the next part of the dream stumbling around dark alleyways trying to find my clothes. Maybe this was punishment for my lack of charity.
The dream moved on and I was in an unknown part of America, somewhere close to Canada. I have been there before. The air was cold and crisp, there were coniferous forests and mountains to the north, and everyone lived in sprawling rustic lodges with verandahs. I was working as a postman whilst my daughter attended a theatre trip organised by the local preschool. There was also a big concert featuring a famous singer about to start, but I had no idea who they were. My postal route took me to a row of detached cabins in a scenic part of town, with forest views and a fishing lake close to hand. With each property being so spaced out, my job was taking a long time to do accomplish.
I looked at my next bundle of mail and saw that it was addressed to Steve Irwin. This surprised me, because the man has been dead these past sixteen years. Nevertheless, I went to the cabin indicated on the address, and started pushing the mail through a vertical letterbox. The door opened before I could finish, and there stood Steve Irwin, dressed in his familiar khaki croc-wrangling gear. Somehow, he had returned, or never died in the first place, and I was too polite to ask. Feeling somewhat sheepish that I had been publicly slandering him on Reddit recently, I handed him his parcel and bid him good day. Halfway down the road, I found some more letters for him that I had missed.
As I dithered on the road, I saw a grizzly bear lurking near the treeline. It did not seem particularly interested in me, but even so, I nervously backtracked to Steve's house. He was ready at the door when I arrived, having seen me from his window. I handed him the remaining letters and asked if the bear's presence was normal. "Yup, perfectly normal, happens everyday mate. They're after our fish!" he replied. I departed a second time and headed to the theatre to collect my daughter. On the way, I reflected on Steve's mysterious reappearance. His wife and family were still in Australia, so I wondered whether they had separated, or could he have purposefully faked his own death and gone into hiding?
Ruminating thus, I stepped out onto a playing field I needed to cross to reach the theatre. It had been freshly turfed and was excessively springy underfoot. I jumped to test its springiness and bounced half a foot into the air as though it were a trampoline. This was so much fun, and I began to bounce up and down like a child. Behind me I noticed a girl from university, on her way to the concert. I felt self-conscious that she had seen me bouncing on the grass, but then immediately thought to myself, 'so what?' I bounded a few more times to prove that I didn't care.
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