My first dream of 2022 involved me returning to my bedroom at my parents' house in Wivenhoe. This was the first room I lived in when we moved to the house (dubbed Heartbreak Hotel) some twenty-two years ago. I was fifteen and angry about moving away from Plymouth when I had pending GCSEs.
The bedroom was on the ground floor, adjoining the bathroom, and it was the smallest in the house. I would later move upstairs, but a lot of my formative moments happened in that first boxroom. It was here that I sulked and schemed in my teenage angst, here that I received my horror film education courtesy of Channel 4, and here that... well I won't go into all that.
In the dream, I was on my computer Zooming with Film Club, listening to music and drinking, unaware of the time. Just like last night, it was New Year's Eve. I may have dozed off for a short while, and before I knew it, the sun was up and the new year had dawned. As is often the case in dreams, I was enrolled on a sixth form course that I rarely showed up for, a guilt I'm convinced stems from not finishing some modules and coursework in my third year of college.
My mother called me out of bed, reminding me not to miss class. I trudged into the kitchen, dehydrated from the booze, and seeking orange juice. After drinking what I could find, I ransacked the fridge and retrieved a jar which turned out to be pickled potatoes floating in a viscous orange fluid. I returned it to the fridge in disgust.
My plan that day had been to cycle to college to attend class, but the uncharacteristically warm weather turned my head. Rather than waste time studying, I decided that I was in need of New Year purification. I took my daughter with me and we boarded a bus, full of refugees, bound for lower Wivenhoe. The bus dropped us off in the car park of the village's Community Centre, right on the coast. As the refugees retrieved their luggage from the bus, I took my daughter across the car park to look at the sea.
In real life, Wivenhoe ends at the river Colne, in the dream it was sheer granite cliffs rising around us, enclosing a natural harbour. We scanned the incoming tide, looking for marine mammals. Gulls swooped among the breakers, and clusters of people in skimpy swimwear stretched and perched upon the jagged rocks, or bobbed in the water, oblivious to the chill they must have felt. The ocean has a very significant place in my dreams, something you will come to see if you read this blog enough.
I told my daughter that we would spend the night at the Community Centre with the refugees, lying on the floor in sleeping bags. A sign at the entrance put an end to such ideas, informing us that the space was strictly reserved for the use of foreigners. I am not so much interested in psychoanalysing my dreams as I am recording the loose narratives and observing what themes emerge over time. I hope the enterprise proves fruitful.
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