Sherlock and Watson

I was having a zoo dream about animals in squalid conditions when my daughter woke me up at 2am climbing by into my bed. Aside from a few nebulous impressions of baboons and other animals in crowded cages, I cannot recall enough details to write it down. So much for that! The next dream was a lot more memorable, with each detail fully formed and etched upon my memory. Here it is.

I was visiting a manor house with Li, in a place somewhere between Wivenhoe Park and the town of Lewes. The manor had a tea room where the public might visit and refresh themselves, and it was here that I learned the house would shortly be up for sale. Li and I tried to guess how much it would go for, I hazarded around a million, with the result being £800,000. Criminally low for such a large mansion, but this was dream logic at work. After boasting that I was closer to the mark than Li, we finished our tea and headed back into Lewes.

There we saw a convoy of school children and their teachers on bicycles, all the way from London. The child would sit on a small seat at the front, with their own set of pedals, whilst the teacher did the heavy pedalling on a seat from behind, in the manner of a daisy bike, or tandem. Li commented on how cute the children all looked, and that this would be Lulu one day. She then left to go somewhere else, and I turned into Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes, from the ITV Granada series. I encountered my friend Darren, who had turned into Doctor Watson.

"Well met!" I called, linking my arm with his in a cordial fashion. We walked down the street thus linked, until we came to a gentleman's clothing shop. In the window were several fashionable outdoorsy garments, including hunting jackets, britches, and tweeds of every cut. We were both drawn to a pair of bay jodhpurs with forest green leather pads in an old world style. The price was £100, and we checked our wallets to see if we could afford them. Deciding that they were a bit pricey but good for a future purchase, we moved on from our window shopping.

Watson said, "I have an appointment to keep at the mansion tea room, with my old client Shelby and his wife. You may recall them from one of our past cases? Please do join us for tea, we would be delighted." In typical Jeremy Brett fashion, I rang out, "Hah! Shelby, that fool, I well remember. A particularly delicate affair. I will meet you at the manor." We parted ways, but not before Watson offered me the use of his bicycle. Why we couldn't walk there together was a mystery, but I got on his bike and began cycling. All of a sudden it was one of the daisy bikes from earlier, and I felt excessively foolish trundling over the countryside in it.

When I arrived at the manor, I did not present myself at the tea room immediately, but rather observed from afar. Somehow Watson had beaten me there on foot, and was enjoying his tea with Shelby and wife. I felt a pang of jealousy seeing them together, but something of professional pride kept me aloof. I did not want me former clients to recognise me, not least because of a scandal involving his wife. There then followed a rather surreal episode of me walking around the manor with my hand before my face, trying to hide in the various rooms, and Shelby's wife singing in a dreamy voice, "I know you from somewhere!"

Mouldy Bedroom

For the second time this year, I returned to No. 29 Ullswater Crescent. I also had a dream about it last year, so something is definitely brewing with that place. It might be trying to call me back - we shall see. The story this time was that we had been renting it out to tenants, and my family (that is myself, my parents, and my sisters) had gone back to inspect the condition of the house after evicting them. I spent nearly all of the dream in my old bedroom, reminiscing and going through my old things, many of which were still there. The fundamentals however, were changed beyond recognition, with dirty mattresses propped up against the walls, a second bed in the corner, and even a big computer station, such as I had as a teenager at Heartbreak Hotel.

I don't remember if the clown wallpaper was still intact. It was still there in the dream 'Return to Looseleigh', but I don't recall it being up last night. I would just like to dwell on a fact that doesn't get much recognition, namely that my bedroom in a haunted house was covered in creepy clown wallpaper. I mean, could it get any more clichéd? My parents didn't put it up, which means someone else with a demented mind, or a Victorian relic, thought it would be suitable for a young child. How times have changed! I recall there was one particular clown among the motley crew who I found creepier than the others. He was a big lump with bouffant black hair and a baggy backside. He reminded me of my friend, Michael Hayes, who I had left behind in Newcastle when moving to Plymouth.

The dimensions of the room had altered and it was much bigger than before, but still small enough to be considered a box room. In addition to the layout being off, the belongings had also changed. It was a mixture of my old stuff and the last boy's who had lived there. In the haste of their eviction, they had not taken all of their things with them. There were framed sports awards and certificates on the walls, trophies and medals, such as might be found in your typical American, red-blooded boy's bedroom. Certainly not fitting for an unathletic, British delinquent such as your narrator. Most of the awards were for tin-pin bowling. The top of the chest of drawers was covered in plastic superhero toys on stands, such as Batman and Superman. They looked like they might have been from cereals.

I decided that I wanted to live in this tiny room again, with scant possessions and no responsibilities. The bookcase still had my old Narnia books, as well as a whole range of Star Wars novelisations, and also some Hero's Challenge game books (Fighting Fantasy knockoffs). I felt a wave of nostalgia on seeing these, and thought about how far I had strayed from innocent, childish pleasures. Not as far as many other adults frankly, I was watching the animated Droids series last night, but something inside me has corrupted. Speaking of corruption, I noticed an unpleasant, fusty smell in the room, and the bedsheets on which I sat were cold and moist to the touch. I thought it might be due to the single glazed window, which could be seen dripping with water through blue, vertical fabric blinds.

Through the window, the glare of car headlights in the driveway shone into my face, and I became aware that I was topless, a grave sight to anyone who might be watching. I ducked down out of sight and tweaked the blinds closed. I quite enjoyed this feeling of being like a child once again. I turned my attention to my old computer, its bulky monitor, once white, was now stained a dirty yellow. I tried to power it up, eager to see if it still worked, but the light sputtered and failed to stay on. Whilst inspecting a loose connection, I discovered that the inside of the computer was full of a viscous black sludge. "That will need to be cleaned out before it'll work," said Terry Cooper, who had suddenly appeared in the room. 

Terry is someone I knew at university, but as to what he was doing in my old childhood bedroom at that moment, I had no idea."There's mould in the walls too," he announced, advancing towards the back wall with a tool in his hand. "It all needs gutting!" He swung the tool and made a hole in the wall, through which black mould could indeed be seen. I told him to wait before he caused further damage, for I wanted to photograph the bedroom and send it to my friends. "This mould could explain the ghost," Terry went on, "it could have induced hallucinations and panic attacks." I had heard this theory before - it is, to my mind, an idea just as fantastical as a supernatural entity. I do not blame people for trying to rationalise things, but the contortions of imagination can be outrageous. 

Terry ignored my request and recommenced hacking away at the wall, tearing off chunks of mould-pitted plaster. I looked around for items to salvage from the destruction and my eyes rested on a suit bag hanging in the wardrobe. I pulled it down, spread it out on the bed, unzipped it, and found a whole collection of cheesy shirts, waistcoats and jackets from the 1980s that had once belonged to my father. I tried on a particularly garish jacket that was far too small for me, and ran downstairs to show my family. My mother and sisters were crowding around the front door, waiting for the postman to ring the doorbell, which played 'Don't Stop Me Now', by Queen. When he failed to press the doorbell, they all sang the song loudly through the letterbox at him, scaring him out of his wits.

Vampire Scribe

Last night, I was a Familiar to a vampire lord of respectably high rank. I came across my dusty master in his dusty manor, ensconced in his dusty study, poring over a large number of dusty tomes and encyclopedias. I asked him what he was doing and he distractedly replied that he was plotting a grand tour of the vampire provinces to seek out (or force) political alliances for undisclosed purposes. "It's a dreary, thankless task," he muttered, "but I can't begin the tour without conducting the proper research or completing the paperwork." I asked if there was anything I could do to lend a hand, for I was after all, his servant. He seemed only too relieved to put down his quill, and explain what I had to do.

There was a large stack of papers, each one containing the same form template, but each relating to a different vampire lord. He was filling out each section, detailing such things as 'heritage and bloodline', 'how to approach X', 'how to respond to X gesture,' including sections for ideal bribes, special powers to be aware of, weaknesses to exploit, etc. It was a meticulous exercise in royal diplomacy and I admired my master's perspicacity. I was proud to serve such a shrewd vampire and the work appeared very much to my taste. An idea entered my head. "If you take me on as your employee, and match or exceed my current wage, I could quit my job and you would have me more often in your service." 

It was a bold request, but he knew that my family duties and timetabling job prevented me from being around more often. He seemed to mull it over, perhaps wanting to see how I performed at the task to hand. Before he could answer, the doorbell rang, a vampire caller. "We'll discuss this later," he said, as he rose to answer it. This was the best I could have hoped for, and I set to work, hoping I had not bitten off more than I could chew. The first paper, the one he had left off at, was none other than Count Dracula. I leafed through the numerous heavy books and newspapers scattered over the table, some of which were University of Cambridge publications. An old encyclopedia Britannia had a section on the famous count.

I began to transfer the relevant information to the form. Correct modes of address from humans were bowing, prostration, or grovelling, depending on the nature of the request. This did not apply to vampires, where such meetings were usually a contest of dominance and bluff, with escalating displays of strength. Dracula was from a very old strain of nobility, and as such he followed an antiquated, courtly form of parley. When he made a particular gesture with his hand, the correct response for a vampire ambassador would be to aggressively crawl towards him on the ceiling, so I drew small symbols on the form to denote this. I found all of it very interesting, and I fantasised about updating my LinkedIn to 'Vampire Scribe.' 

When he had dealt with the visitor, my master returned and asked how I was getting on. I excitedly told him everything I had learned about Dracula, hoping to impress him with my research, yet aware that there still remained a huge stack of forms to fill out. "Yes, yes, I know all of that," my master replied. "I always respond with an aggressive display of power. What I want to know are Dracula's secrets, how does he transfigure himself into a pillar of mist?" I sighed and said, "I'm afraid you won't find that written down anywhere. I can only offer what's been published. Have you thought about my proposal?" The vampire pondered, then said I must grant him his freedom in return, whereupon I told him he was getting his lores mixed up.

Up, Up and Away

Due to my guilt at being unable to walk Beibei yesterday, I dreamed that I had three pets to look after, acquired as a trio in a cardboard box from a newspaper advert. I not only failed miserably in this task, but also indulged in unintentional animal abuse. I was in a living room from my childhood, surrounded by family members, but my back garden and street were the same as those in Cooksbridge. There was a cute and charismatic puppy, towards which much fuss and attention was directed. He was seen as the main draw, with the others being unwanted add-ons, mere conditions of the purchase. Ironically, I have now forgotten the puppy's name and breed, so much for favouritism.

Then there was a shy, fluffy kitten with slitted eyes. Of the trio, she had received the least amount of attention. Indeed, the poor creature had not been given a name, and it was doubtful whether she had even been fed since arriving. I am not a big fan of cats, having never owned one as a pet, but this is not to say I dislike them. At some point in the dream, I remembered the kitten's existence, and argued about what to call her with my sisters. Based on the colour of her fur, my sisters claimed we should call her Honey. I didn't like this name, and thought she should be given something special to make up for the earlier neglect. I therefore changed it to Seyn, after my Star Wars waifu.

The third pet was an oversized, flop-eared bunny, excessively huggable, but prone to biting. We called him Flopsy and had played with him a lot before losing interest due to his unpredictability. Later on, I found him under the sofa and gave him a big squeeze, receiving bitten fingers in return. I wrapped a red blanket around him like a cape, and then tied 3 helium balloons to his torso. We put him into the garden, laughing hysterically as he hopped around, trailing the cape behind him. When leaping into the air, the flowing cape lent him the impression of being child sized, the balloons buoying him to even greater heights. A storm was brewing, with gale-force winds, and suddenly Flopsy was whisked into the sky.

We watched in dismay as he floated higher and higher. Flopsy let out squeaks of distress, kicking and squirming. The cape fluttered free, but the balloons remained firmly attached. Up and up Flopsy floated, into the clouds. Lulu pointed in wonder and bewilderment whilst we ran about like headless chickens. Either the balloons would burst and Flopsy would plummet to his death, miles from home, or he would rise into the very stratosphere, perhaps even into space. Soon he was but a tiny speck, at the same altitude as the planes from Gatwick. I grabbed a doctor's kit, and ran outside into the street, trying to keep him within my sights.

The winds dropped, and slowly Flopsy grew larger as he floated back to earth. Miraculously, he was borne back to our street and landed two door's down in the bushes of a neighbour's front garden. The landing was smooth, but I applied a stethoscope to his chest to check his heart rate. Only then did I realise that it was Lulu's toy doctor kit I had grabbed in my haste. To save face, I went along with the procedure anyway, telling everyone that his heart was going like a jack hammer, but he had survived the ordeal. At that point, the neighbours came home and were surprised to find a small crowd on their property, attending to a bunny with a toy stethoscope. Flopsy then gave my fingers a sharp nip, a sure sign he was back to his usual self.