Wooden Boy

I have lately been watching various Pinocchio adapations, there seem to be a lot of them around at the moment. It was only inevitable, therefore, that I had a Pinocchio inspired dream. I was a volunteer at a live theatre company, along with other members of the public, who would queue up to perform with the same troupe. The gig was to play the titular character of Pinocchio, allowing the actors to dictate the narrative and be swept along for the experience, almost like a paid 'actor for a day' scheme.

I forget the opening scenes of the play, but my memory kicks in when Pinocchio (me) was visited by a doctor with a waistcoat and pocket watch. The actor playing the doctor was clearly homosexual, and whilst performing the farcical gestures with me, involving a health inspection (which was supposed to be funny, because Pinocchio is made of wood), he surreptitiously molested me. I did not know if this groping was part of the play, or something the actor was doing to signal his interest, but I firmly pushed his hand away and the show went on without interruption. 

The doctor pretended to bleed me, and getting into the spirit of proceedings, I performed an exaggerated swoon and feigned a collapse. To revive me, I was led to some tables where chefs were serving up real platters of hot food. I looked over all the appetising stews, soups, and noodle dishes, asking for generous helpings from each. The joke here was that puppets do not need to eat. I indulged in some small talk, telling the catering staff about how fussy my daughter was.

The next part of the show was the big puppet threatre set piece, run by the abusive gypsy Stromboli. It was the same actor who played the doctor, in even more fanciful attire, replete with silken cuffs, frills, curled wig and pompadour makeup. He placed some glasses on my face and painted blue spirals on them, then he took my cheeks in his hands and crooned about how I would be his masterpiece. He whispered in my ear "no strings." The innuendo laden wordplay was not lost on me. The other puppets put on a bawdy, provacative performance to 'I've got no strings', much to the amusement of the audience. This involved the puppets performing a copulation dance with  painted wooden breasts and genitalia on display.

For the next scene, Stromboli grew angry with Pinocchio and tried to discard him. I was thrown into a metal airduct, which I was supposed to squeeze through before ending up in the trash. The duct was far too narrow for a person to fit into, so I climbed out and scuttled over to the refuse pile instead. Because I had held things up, the actor playing Pinocchio behind me (remember that this was conveyor belt theatre) was emerging from the duct at that time, and landed painfully on his face. There was now no guidance for what I was supposed to do, so I wandered between metal pipes and dusty walkways until a Dickensian London gang caught me up and introduced me to rough-living street life, complete with energetic song and dance.

I had played my role rather woodenly up until this point, not wanting to take the shine away from the real actors, but now I got really into the performance and acted my heart out. When the show ended, I was given a resounding applause, and even won the prize for best participant role out of all the volunteers. Nonetheless, the molestation had made the experience not worth it in the end.

Jewish Parade

In my dreams I own a property in Wivenhoe, a small bungalow inherited from my late Nana. The property has remained stable throughout all the twists and turns of the dreamscape, always in the same location, near the top of Wivenhoe high street. It was to feature again in last night's dream, but only briefly. I was visiting Colchester to see family, planning to stay Wednesday to Sunday at my friend Dan's house, who was also in Wivenhoe. Before I could settle in, his uncle unexpectedly visited, who also wanted to stay with Dan. Because there was only one spare room, I was rather forcibly persuaded to concede the room to his uncle. It was at that point I remembered about my own property, so the situation was resolved, and unpleasantness avoided.

I discovered that my parents had sold all of their dogs, every last one. I was very surprised about this, as the dogs have always been my Mammy's pride and joy. She was tired of them barking, weeing everywhere, and destroying the house, so one day she snapped and put them all up for sale. I told her that it was cruel on Pierre, the eldest dog, who is suffering badly from arthritis. The younger dogs would have no problem finding a new home, but Pierre was too big and too old. I also discovered that she had given my Nana's dog, Bonnie, who I owned in the dream, to my sister Camella. I asked if I could have her back, as she usually stayed at the bungalow. They said she had developed a disorder where twice a day she would gush ambiotic liquid down her hind legs and make puddles all over the floor, whilst convulsing in pain. This rather put me off, but I pushed my claim.

Later that afternoon, I visited the town with my family. I had heard there was a Harry Potter shopping street newly opened, and my daughter, who is a big fan, wanted to go. Before I could find it, a black man wearing an elaborate costume came strutting into town. His wardrobe was a cross between an Egyptian king in leopard print toga, and a Brazilian carnival dancer with a plumed headdress. He announced that it was the Jewish Parade, to celebrate the rich diversity and mythology of Jewish culture. More people arrived, all looking like figures from the Bible, or oriental kings and barbarians. The leader of the parade shouted, "Bring in the Hierophants!" Great beasts lumbered up the street in single file. They walked on two legs but had the grey and wrinkled aspect of elephants, heads resembling hooded cobras, with small pouting mouths ringed by sharp teeth. On their backs they carried sacks that look suspiciously as though they contained human bodies.

"I don't remember these from Jewish mythology," I commented to one of my sisters. As they plodded past us, I had a chance for a closer look, and they appeared more serpent-like, but with a hint of manta-ray. Their fluted mouths were rather like a lamprey's. I learned that the sacks on their backs did indeed contain people, who were in a state of torpor and would later be transferred to a spot beneath the creature's hoods, held in place with a sticky residue. The person would slowly fuse with the flesh of the Hierophant, becoming embalmed in a fleshy cocoon. Typically the hood of the creature would remain closed during the day and only fan open at night, where the victim would be 'aired', a process necessary for the digestion process, which was in indeed their ultimate fate, to be absorbed by the creature. The victims would turn putrid shades of yellow and green as their nutrients were slowly siphoned away. 

Gliding into 2023

My first notable dream of 2023 was a wholesome one as far as my dreams usually go. I was using a PSVR (PlayStation Virtual Reality) device to experience Elon Musk's play boy activities through his eyes. The technology had been updated to the degree where you could actually experience all 5 sensations of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch in a real life situation, as though you were actually there. In this scenario, Musk was riding an electric Tesla moped, a new invention of his, on the top of a huge military cargo plane. He was live broadcasting the stunt to Twitter, inviting anyone to use their VR headsets to tap in. I was describing the experience to a friend, Mr Robot, over mic, who had yet to make the plunge. Comments on the livestream came pouring in. Musk's sychophants gushed about how inspirational he was, whilst his detractors complained it was a reckless, dangerous, self-indulgent and expensive thing to do whilst so many people were struggling with rising living costs.

Elon drove the moped back and forth over the plane, which was soaring at an altitude of over a thousand feet. Bumping along the riveted metal hulk, I looked down but could only see snatches of ocean through the cloud cover. A helicopter hovered over the proceedings, dangling a handle at the end of a cord, which Musk could grab onto should things go pear shaped. Musk was having far too much fun to be cautious, and he let go of the grip to exert greater control over the moped. New comments condemned Musk for performing the stunt on a prototype vehicle that hadn't been fully tested, whilst petrol heads ranted about the 'soyness' of electric vehicles. As exhilarating as the experience was, I've never had a head for flying, and the greatest enjoyment was yet to come. Having tired of his aerial sports, like a kid throwing away one toy for the novelty of a new one, Musk had the airforce land him in the ocean and leave him alone on an electrically powered catamaran. 

The craft was controlled by dipping pedals, causing a sail to inflate and catch the wind from various angles. I/Musk went zipping along over the gentle swell in all directions, enjoying the feeling of the rushing wind on our faces, and the spray of water as we made sharp turns. I tweaked my VR interface to try and shareplay the experience with Mr Robot, wanting him to be as equally wowed. He had trouble connecting, so I had to describe the breathtaking experience on the fly. Before long, the catamaran was joined by a school of inquisitive common bottlenose dolphins. I saw their metallic grey heads with white under markings poking above the surface for a peek. Despite their friendly nature, I didn't want to get too close, and it was at that moment I realised I was no longer a passive voyeur, but now had control over the craft. This was some next level immersion. Ripples in the water indicated shoals of fish that the dolphins were corralling into bait balls. My feets were under the water, and as I sliced through them, I felt the stinging impact of tiny fish. I pulled my feet up onto the board, as I don't care for fish. The sensations of freedom and freshness were beyond words, and my awakening came far too soon.

The Last Seduction

I am currently breakfasting at a holiday camp in Dorset, attempting to put down my last dream of 2022 with hyper children around me. I don't think this blog has any readers, but incase it does, I should point at that I have no desire, consciously or unconsciously, to have an affair or liaison with another woman. Dreams do as dreams do. In this dream, I was in the same job as in real life, only the location was the University of Essex, where I used to work. My colleagues were all the same, with some new additions. It was a Sunday when I decided to drive to campus to catch up on emails, not wanting to have a flooded inbox on the first day back after New Year. To my surprise the office was busy, but I logged onto the PC and instead of reading emails, I booted up Zoo Tycoon. Before long, a woman came over and asked me to move, as Sunday was her work day and she hotdesked at the same computer. I relinquished the PC and headed back to the car park. 

On the way, I noticed that the squares were populated by lots of students in flamboyant outfits. They were celebrating the Vagina Monologues, an annual SU event. They seemed to be mostly lesbians, who all began to kiss at the same time. I weaved through them and climbed a steep grassy slope to the multi-storey carpark. The slope was full of cowpats, but I managed to successfully navigate them until I got to the very top and my trousers dragged through one. With my trousers coated in dung, I reached the carpark but couldn't remember where I parked. On the way up the staircase to the first floor, I snagged my car keys on the mesh railing and spent several minutes trying to free it. A group of boys walked past and helped me to get them free, then I was in my Citreon driving back to the holiday camp, which was only a 30 minute drive in the dream. There was a dream shift, and I was back in the office working, although I was the only one from my team present.

Before long, I was approached by a young woman from the arts and crafts department in the same building. She worked on the floor surrounded by fabric and textiles. I had seen her around before, but had made no effort to socialise with her or anyone else outside of my immediate team. She tried to make nice with me, but being stilted and repressed in the dream, I was not reciprocative. Later on, I received an email from my manager which annoyed me, so I decided to slack off for the rest of the day. I went over to the girl and sat down on the floor next to her, for a chat. She was visibily delighted by my sudden sociability and went to make me one of her special teas. She was dressed all in pink with dyed hair, and was a cross between Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter, Brooklyn from Camp Cretaceous, and Enid from Wednesday, yet definitely more on the hippy dippy side. I was still socially awkward at this point, but I apologised for my aloofness, and the girl, who I think was called Ingrid, said she would give me a tour of the campus.

There was a festival atmosphere, with everyone dressed in extravagant oufits for Guy Fawkes night. Stalls were set up all around, flogging food and drink, arts and crafts, herbs and spices. There were entertainment booths with weaponry displays, a haunted house, archery practice, homemade knick-knacks. Ingrid introduced me to lots of weird and wacky people around campus, gently ribbing me for not having made the effort before, and chastising me for not remembering anyone's name. She held my hand as she led me around, and I felt self-conscious that colleagues might see us together and think I was cheating on my wife. She left me at a group of stalls whilst she flitted off to meet some other people, telling me she would be back shortly. There was a pets stall, and one for alchemy with various potions for sale. Here I met Thomas Felton, the actor who played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter films. He was dressed as Malfoy, but was a very agreeabe chap to talk to and not at all like his character. My awkwardness gradually melted away as the dream progressed.

Ingrid returned and became very flirtatious. Some of her female friends began to make comments about us being a couple, and I did not put a stop to it. The animal brain was taking over, thoughts of my family life and church vows diminishing under the onslaught of this vivacious young woman. She was not my type at all, and her skin was rather bad, but it had been a long time since I had had my ego stroked, and I was succumbing to her charms. I asked if I could have another of her teas, which she deciphered into a metaphor for something else. She led me to a colleague's former office, which she assured me would be safe from the prying eyes of other staff members. We went inside and pulled down the blinds, but just before we embraced, I noticed a dark Muslim woman sitting in the corner at a PC. We pulled apart and made our excuses. Ingrid then led me down a spiral metal staircase outside. Halfway down, she stopped, bared her breast, and flung herself at me. I did not resist, but after a few hurried kisses, I pulled away, overcome with shame and guilt. I insisted that we go back to the main office for a cup of tea, and I awoke not long after. 

Zebra Adoption

Usually when I visit zoos in dream world, I'm on my own, but last night my family came with me. It was my mother, three sisters, and daughter, and I had been invited to adopt the zoo's zebras. There were other animals I'd rather have adopted, but this was the species that had been selected for me. More than your regular adoption scheme, I was expected to take charge of the zebras and have official ownership, but first I had to inspect them. I was adamant that only the very best and cleanest specimens would do, so I went into a barn where they were paraded before me. Although not as grubby as I had feared, I was a little put out to discover that they were off the maneless variety, such as are housed at Colchester Zoo. I grumbled a little to my mother, but at the same time, I was worried about missing out on this unique opportunity, and I agreed to the adoption. 

Immediately in front of the zebra paddocks were some glass tanks occupied by a strange species of plated snake with a name I could not pronounce but which had lots of O's and lots of C's. They were half buried in soil with only their coiled tails visible, segmented with bony ridges like a desert skink. At length, they began to unwind, spiralling up out of the earth. Lulu watched fascinated as they spun around like Catherine wheels, eventually rearing their wormy heads and striking opened mouthed at us. "Aggressive little buggers, aren't they?" I said, inspecting their rows of needle-like fangs brushing impotently against the glass. "I don't like them daddy," said Lulu before running away. 

My mother and younger sisters decided it was time to move on and see some new animals. As we left the zebra house behind, my older sister Fallon joined us and said she'd been watching the koalas, which were in the same building. I told her I would have liked to see them too, but she told me not to bother, as they'd spent the whole time curled into tight balls and sleeping. We reached an enclosure that was home to golden lion tamarins, their orange tails dangling from a jumble of dense foliage like feathery lures. It was a steep drop down to their enclosure, separating guests with only a waist high wall. I leaned over and calculated how many stories down it would be, asking Dana if you she thought I would survive if I fell. "Probably," she replied, "but you'd be permanently crippled." I imagined myself lying there on the concrete, with tamarins poking my broken body.

Calais Cove

I wanted to go to Paris, and my colleague Isabelle, who is French, was heading there herself, so we decided to travel together. For reasons unknown, there were no trains running, including the Eurostar. Planes were a no-go too, so we settled on walking. Google Maps estimated that if we kept a steady pace and trekked through the night, we could be there within three hours. The app was not exactly accurate, as we did walk all night through the English countryside and still hadn't reached the Channel Tunnel. We hiked over ditch and dale, trying to avoid motorways but getting turned around in the wrong direction and needing to recalibrate. We eventually reached the Tunnel, only it was a bridge we had to cross.

Towards dawn we finished crossing the bridge and arrived in Calais, where Isabelle lived with her husband. She suggested that we stop over at her house before making the rest of the journey by train to Paris. I sat in the guest room, reorganising my suitcase and wondering what I was doing, yet eager to be on my way. First I was made to join Isabelle and her husband for dinner, and although I appreciated the hospitality, I was in an antisocial mood and felt the small talk painful. I asked about her sons, whose photographs were spread around the dining room. The doorbell rang and Isabelle announced it was time to go, her friend had arrived to accompany us to the train station.

On the way, Isabelle's friend, a fifty something year old woman, wanted to show me a cove in the town where local families caught their fish. Isabelle was proud of her town, and eager to share the treasured spot with me too. I was impatient with all these diversions, but agreed anyway, telling myself that as soon as I got to Paris, I could go off on my own. The cove was much more than I could have imagined. Up a small flight of stone steps, and through a narrow passage between two houses, we came upon it. A hidden retreat nestled behind picturesque houses with their well tended gardens, it seemed as though this was the only spot in the town where the sun shone. Limestone cliffs encircled the bay, with only a small opening to the sea.

The waters of the cove were choppy and dark blue. They were also teeming with fish, leaping and broncing clear of the surface, their sharp heads gaping in stupefaction as fish are wont to do. I was amazed at their abundance, and could see why the locals ate so well. "Bluefin tuna!" I declared, instantly recognising them. Isabelle and her friend affirmed that I was correct. "I thought these fish were now endangered?" I queried. My guides told me they were only found in this particular spot, gathering for no discernible reason where they were easily snagged by fishermen. After a quick look, we turned back for the station and our pilgrimage continued. The rest of the dream was uninteresting. A backpacker girl approached me looking for drugs, and I eventually said goodbye to Isabelle and boarded the train to Paris.

Mediterranean Monoliths

In this exciting and sun soaked dream, I was on holiday in the Mediterranean (Spain, I think) with my wife Li, sitting in the passenger seat as she drove along a narrow coastal road. The road climbed higher and was eventually taken over by a glass walkway that wrapped itself aroud the cliff, just wide enough for one vehicle. It appeared to be for pedestrians only, but Li drove onto it anyway, slowing to a crawl to account for the tight twists. I told her that we should park and proceed on foot, but she was anxious to get to our hotel, and it had already been a long drive. As we rounded a corner, the full expanse of the twinkling blue Mediterranean sea spread out below us, bordered by glistening yellow beaches swarming with tourists. I marvelled at the view, but Li could not look, being too occupied with driving. 

All of a sudden there was a massive spume of water belching into the air, and a colossal stone monument rose from the depths of the ocean. Staggering in its majesty, it was a statue of Poseidon, lord of the sea, wielding his mighty trident. It broke the surface at a tilt, the prongs of the trident casting judgement over the coast, bobbed up and down a few times, then sank back into the sea up to its shoulders, causing a huge wave. Another structure appeared, the spire of an ancient citadel, and then its dome, yawning and rolling on the swell. Then the fractured stern of an old fasioned galley, vertically aloft. It was the ocean giving up its subterranean secrets, regurgitating the relics of a lost culture. I stared dumbfounded at the spectacular sight, my eyes unable to process everything. I insisted that we had to return on foot after we'd reached the hotel. On the beaches, the tourists and locals swarmed like ants.

Unfortunately, the rest of the dream is not fit for public view.

Midlife Crisis

I dreamt that I was divorced from my wife and shacked up with a much younger woman, someone I knew from my university days. We had met during a heavy drinking session at the student bar, and were now in a double bed together, although I don't think anything had actually happened between us. The woman began to comment on my appearance, telling me that I was no longer as attractive as I had been in my younger days. I am not a vain person, so I took the comments without offence, even agreeing with her. I told her that I was a lot older than when we first met. She was not content with leaving things there, and went on to point out all my failings, including whiting hair, and a droopiness about my face. I asked her if the solution was to dye my hair and get botox. She folded her arms and pouted, moving over to her side of the bed.

I realised that I did not want to continue relations with this young woman. I was on the verge of suggesting that we broke up, as I did not have the luxury of time to waste my energy on a doomed fling. However, my resolve faltered at the last moment, and the words stuck in my throat. I worried about how she would react, and thought perhaps it would be better for her to take the initiative so that my conscience would be clear. The more I dwelled on it, the more I realised that it had been a mistake to divorce my wife. I was awoken by her at that point, but, still half asleep, I told her to leave me be, as I needed to break up with my new girlfriend first. I don't usually write these kinds of dreams down, but it could be useful to have as a record of my state of mind at this point in my life, for better or worse.

Hedgehogs and Abduction

In this double bill, I had a sweet and innocent dream, followed by a not so sweet and innocent one. I was watching my daughter sleeping, her bed next to open patio doors to let in some air, when I noticed a hedgehog snuffling into the room. It was a big old specimen, the largest I've ever seen, with a similar body shape to the one pictured below. It climbed onto the bed, towards Lulu's sleeping head, then disappeared into the dark nook behind the pillow and headboard. I called Li over to take a look, shining my torch into the blackness behind the headboard. Three pairs of white eyes reflected back at us, indicating that there was a whole pickle of them nestled back there. I decided to leave them be, as they didn't seem interested in disturbing our daughter. This dream was clearly symbolic of the fact Lulu has recently started school and is in the 'hedgehogs' reception group.

In the second part, I was catching an Uber home to Cooksbridge when the driver, a balding Ukranian man called Dimitri, overshot it. I asked him to turn around when he could. Inexplicably, even after reaching an obvious turning point at the Rainbow pub car park, he carried on driving. I asked him to let me out, but he put his head on my shoulder and began snuggling into me whilst driving, telling me that he liked me and wanted me to stay. I began to hyperventilate, realising it was a hostage situation. I tried to open the door but he had control of the locks. After driving a bit further, to an unfamiliar estate, he stopped in a quiet car park and made his advances. I fought my way out of the uber, shouting for help, as he chased after me. He grabbed hold of me and tried to pull my trousers down, at which point, roused by my shouts, some residents appeared and I was able to run away. This was no doubt triggered by watching the Netflix series about the gay serial killer, Jeffrey Dahmer.

Leatherface Attacks

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) has held a special place in my psyche since I saw it for the first time at the ripe old age of 15. I was getting into horror films in a big way, but TCM had always eluded me due to it being banned in the UK. On an historic night, it was aired on Channel 4 for the first time in the UK, in the summer of 2000. I remember it well. I had just to moved to Essex and was renting a house with my family, at Chaney Road in Wivenhoe. It was a sweltering hot summer's evening, crickets were chirping (before crickets went virtually extinct in Britain), and I was still in a state of discombobulation after the move, my anxiety levels at a natural high. The film scared me senseless. Halfway through, during an advert break, I joined my sister in her room to watch the rest. We had taped it on VHS and watched it every day for weeks after. I had never been so terrified and delighted by a film in equal measure, and I doubt I ever will again. It swiftly became my favourite horror film, perhaps my favourite film of all time.

I ignored the first Leatherface dream I had this year, as I didn't believe it held any great significance. But when another one happened a few months later, I thought I'd better take notice. The first dream happened during daylight hours, in a western town in Texas. It was all dusty saloons, barns with hanging corpses on meathooks, weathered old men with shotguns, and Leatherface running rampant from house to house with his chainsaw, leaving a trail of destruction. Enough time has passed that I forget the finer details, but it was part 2 in a dream about threatening hillbillies. The first section had been a scenario with Straw Dogs ne'er-do-wells with rifles, who were intent on using my wife and I as target practice as we ran across a field to escape the village hall where they were shacked up.

In my latest Leatherface dream, he was wearing the pretty lady mask (pictured below) and was stalking me through a rambling farmstead at night. The lights of the house were all on, as it was populated by teenagers having a party, but it was black as pitch outside, a sweltering summer night. The dream had me running up staircases, setting booby traps Home Alone style, hiding in cupboards, and jumping through windows to escape. The relentless buzz of the chainsaw rung through the house, pursuing me wherever I went. There was nowhere to go and I was running out of hiding places. Occasionally I would hear the screams of other people in the house as they were murdered, and would later find their mangled corpses and trails of blood. I don't remember how the dream ended, but it was a white-knuckle ride.

Bird Warden

I was living in a big rustic house in the country, and there was an intense atmosphere of anxiety. Although beautifully situated, surrounded by trees, with large windows opening onto orchards and well cultivated gardens, I could not shake a sense of foreboding. I was soon to discover why. Tucked away in the drawer of an old wooden bureau was an aviary's worth of live birds. They were tied into bundles with string, packed tighter than sardines so that they couldn't move. When I pulled open the drawer, one of the birds broke free and began flapping around the room. I hurriedly closed the drawer, appalled by the claustrophobic sight of all those panting beaks and glassy eyes.

I focused my attention on the bird that had escaped. I would have to go through my bird encyclopedia to identify it properly, but it looked a little like an Australian treecreeper, with a long, dark beak and pied plumage. After flying frantically around the room, it discovered an open window and disappeared into the garden. Li turned up  and told me I would have to learn how to care for the birds, as I was to become their warden. It then made sense that was a multitude of bird cages, perches, and bird droppings situated around the house. I don't know why they had been stuffed into the drawer when the previous occupant moved out. 

After worrying that I had lost the first bird, it eventually returned and I discovered that it was a mimic, like the myna bird. I taught it to say "Hello Lulu" so I could surprised my daughter when she got back from preschool. This backfired, and the bird thought I was called Lulu, forever after greeting me as such in its piping voice. My levels of anxiety spiked when I considered the birds still waiting to be released, fed, and cared for. I was horrified at finding them in such a condition, but also quite afraid of them. The thought of untying them all and setting them loose in the house prevented me from stepping up to my duty. 

The Martians

Back in the 1960s, when the excitement of space exploration was still at its peak, a young couple from America were shuttled to Mars. It was a one way trip to colonise the Red Planet and to begin laying the seeds of infrastructure that might allow more settlers to move there in the future. They were a happy-go-lucky couple, content in their own company, passionate about their mission, and quite reconciled to the fact they would never see their home planet, or another person, again. The trip was successful and they formed a modest agricultural homestead, However, with no way to keep in touch, the world promptly forgot about them. Until now.

Using cutting edge probe technology, the BBC successfully made contact with the pioneers and was able to film a documentary on their lives. Living alone for almost 50 years with no outside contact, the couple had naturally undergone significant changes, yet no one could have foreseen what the probe uncovered. Both the man and the woman still sported long tangled manes of hair, they had been hippies in the 60s and, isolated from changing fashion trends, they had remained thus. Their hair had not turned grey, and they had not visibly aged to the extent one might have expected. The woman was by all accounts a midget and her voice was high and squeaky, sounding like she regularly huffed on helium. Other than that, she was the more normal of the two.

The man was another story. Somehow during his sojourn on Mars, he had lost both of his legs. The low gravity on the planet meant that this was not as much of a handicap, and he still enjoyed good mobility. More shockingly, his head had detached from his body, rendering him a living torso. His head was connected to his neck by a long hose, passing vital nutrients and oxygen back and forth. Most amazingly of all, he had not only learned how to play an electric synthesiser type instrument, but his severed head was still able to sing. He cut a horrifying sight, his ghoulish, legless torso perched on a chair whilst his hands played the keys, a haunting, otherwordly tune. Meanwhile, at the end of his winding nutrient hose, his head would sing lustily into the stars, a groaning, guttural refrain.

The documentary then went onto showcase the couple's bizarre sex life. Despite lacking legs, genitalia, and a head, the man had lost none of his libido. His chipmunk voiced wife chirped animatedly about how she would lube herself up in oil and slither and slide over her husband's torso, stimulating him in new and unorthodox ways. The documentary was too much to bear, and I turned it off in disgust. I awoke with a foul, nauseous taste in my mouth, and was queasy for some hours after. Beware the Martians, for they have transcended our mortal ways.

Cliffside Retreat

This dream had a distinct sense of deja vu. Many of its elements have already appeared in previous dreams. The cliffs surrounding a rocky cove, a horse ride, sea lions in the surf, a predatory polar bear. It was a private sanctum known only to myself, which I visited on occasion for quiet reflection and for riding my black stallion, Bucephalus, named after Alexander the Great's horse. On this occasion, I had invited my friend Darren to join me, eager to finally share the location and show off my horse. I seemed more excited by the fact that the horse was black, thinking this would be its main selling point. Darren turned up with a few beers which we drank together on the rocks, watching the pounding waves. I suggested a few times that we should ride Bucephalus together, but he seemed wary of the venture and declined. Eventually he left and I was alone again.

I mounted my horse and galloped along the tops of the cliffs, feeling the wind in my hair. When I grew weary of this, I climbed back down to the cove and sat watching the sleek forms of sea lions gambolling in the water. I couldn't get a good look at them as they were farther out than usual. It was cold, and the water was a steely grey. I decided that if the sea lions wouldn't come to me, I would go to them. As I started to hug the narrow path along the base of the cliff, heading towards the tip of a peninsula that would bring me closer, I heard a bone chilling roar and a waterlogged polar bear came charging towards me. I turned and ran, turning into a narrow gulley carved into the cliffs. I used overhanging trees and ledges to pull myself up, but soon realised I was trapped with nowhere higher to climb. The polar bear made a concentrated effort to reach me, but it was unable to scale the cliffs. I realised I would have to remain here until somebody found me, or the bear got bored and left.

Plane Crash

I hate flying. Really I loathe it. I've flown a lot of long haul over the years, so it has become associated with boredom and discomfort. My long legs can no longer handle the confines of economy, or risk the gamble of securing a bulkhead seat, so now I must fork out large chunks of money for the comfort that business class brings. Even then, I find it impossible to relax on a plane, much less sleep. After a number of hair-raising experiences in the sky, my dislike eventually evolved into fear. One too many forced landings, emergency returns to port of origin, and extreme turbulence have made me into a nervous flyer. Imagine my relief when COVID-19 broke and I was no longer required to fly anywhere. But that restriction is almost at an end, and with it came a dream highlighting a prevalent fear. May it not turn out prophetic.

I was on a small plane, flying out from one Chinese city to another. It was a similar aircraft to the TransAsia prototype model that crashed into the Keelung River in Taiwan in 2015, resulting in the deaths of 48 passengers. Most terrifying of all, I had my young daughter with me, her safety of which is of greater importance than my own. We took off from a small runway hemmed in by skyscrapers, and no sooner had we cleared it than one of the wings scraped the side of a tower and twisted the plane sharply out of its skyward trajectory. The pilot informed us that we did not have time to gain enough altitude, so would be forced to make an emergency landing. My nails dug into my sweaty palms as I held my daughter close and struggled to control my breathing. The pilot managed to align the plane along a main road, bearing low towards the ground, searching for a place relatively devoid of traffic where he could touch down. The wings were too broad for the narrow pass however, and their tips received another scraping from the flanking buildings. Sparks flew, traffic screeched out of the plane's path, but we ground to a bumpy halt with no more damage than our frayed nerves and some buckled wings.

We were shuttled back to the airport on a coach, then it was a long and tedious layover period whilst a replacement plane was sourced for us, during which time I lolled around the terminal lobby with a bored child. When it was finally time to board, many of us were dismayed to discover that it was exactly the same plane as before. We were reassured that it had been fixed and deemed flight worthy, yet once onboard, it became apparent that the pilot himself was far from convinced. It was another long wait before we were eventually able to take off. In that time, I got to know a lot of the other passengers, including a Muslim man who kept frantically praying and chanting. I returned to my seat as we climbed into the sky, and after a smooth ascent, I began to feel at ease. The flight continued without mishap, until all of a sudden, an alarm from the cockpit started blaring. The cockpit was visible to the rest of the plane, and I saw the pilot breaking down into a panic, screeching a distress message into an intercom. The plane shuddered and began to tip. Everyone screamed as we began to pick up speed and hurtle back towards the ground. I hugged my child close and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end. Then I woke up.

Garden Safari

My latest dream, like 'Cooksbridge Living', took place at my current property, surrounded by the green fields of the neighbouring farms. I was alone at home and Beibei kept escaping into the fields, prompting me to go out and hunt him down. It was a summer afternoon, one of those balmy days that emerge after a downpour. The local farmers were out and about working their fields. At some point my daughter Lulu turned up, and we sat in the garden together, chatting about animals and telling Beibei off for escaping. 

I heard the unmistakable baritone chuffing of hippos coming from the fields, and I ran to the fence in excitement. Could there really be wild hippos living in Cooksbridge? Lulu confirmed that she had seen some earlier, but being only four years old, was relatively non-plussed by the experience. I craned my neck over the encroaching vegetation but was unable to see anything. Eventually I found a gate in the foliage and pulled it open. On the other side, I was amazed to discover an African elephant, two ostriches, and a bunch of zebras and antelopes. They tried to push their way into my garden, so I hurriedly closed the gate again.

Once more I heard hippo snorts, and it seemed to be coming from the garden next to mine. I peered over the fence to find a big muddy pond that had been excavated from the lawn. Inside were a number of dark shapes swimming about, but the water was too murky to see clearly. An immense black lump broke the surface, the sweeping back of a killer whale. The whale fairly dominated the pond, with only enough space for it to swim forward a few feet. I picked up a long handled paddle and gave it a poke, hoping it would dislodge any hippos hiding there. As it glided through the water, it disturbed the other animals, which one by one, evacuated the pond. To my great confusion, they weren't hippos at all, but sea-lions. 

Toilet Spider

Of late my dreams have been obfuscated by matters that appear pressing but which in due course I will denounce as being of little import. One dream that I do remember involved the brutal rape of a wildebeest by a gang of squaddies, after which the beast then tried to inflict the same trauma upon me. The dream was spent in a harried state, rushing from room to room at a holiday chalet whilst the enraged gnu attempted to penetrate me. I do not give this dream its own entry, as I left it too long and the finer details have since eluded me. Perhaps for the best. 

Last night's dream also involved being chased by an animal, which is what reminded me of the above. I was studying French at university, and about to start my first class of the term, which was in the evening. I decided to visit the toilets first, and after going about my business I was dismayed to discover that the hand dryer was swarming with large black and yellow spiders. They looked exotic and poisonous, so I quickly wiped my hands on my trousers and went into the classroom next door. The lesson was already underway, and the teacher was a severe looking old woman with short grey hair. So much for my hopes of a chic fashionista! 

I took a seat at the back of the class and attempted to elude notice. Unfortunately, nothing escaped this teacher's beady eye, and she demanded to know my name, and why I was late. I apologised and explained the situation in the men's toilets, which I thought would be sufficient to let me off the hook. Without batting an eyelid at the report of a potentially dangerous spider swarm, she asked if I had notified security and I quickly lied that I had. She nodded and the class recommenced. After a short while, the teacher asked me what my hobbies and interests were. I asked if I should reply in French, to which she replied "no". I reeled off the usual - literature, creative writing, zoology, classical music, etc.

At the end of class, my friend Kate, who was also studying French, asked me to show her the spiders. We crept into the toilets but only one spider reminded, a big, pulsating bastard with vivid markings like a wasp. I am not an arachnophobe by any stretch of the imagination, in fact I'm rather fond of spiders, but Kate gasped and ran away. The spider appeared to see me, and it pounced. I joined Kate in her mad escape down the corridor. Looking back I saw the spider land with a plop on the floor and come scuttling after me at frightening speed. When it was close, it made another leap and almost caught me. I changed direction and ran back the way I had come, but the tenacious creature kept on me, determined to land a bite. I may have been screaming both in the dream and in real life...

Prehistoric Relics

I was at the University of Essex with my friend Darren, traversing the halls of the literature department as we often did. At some point we took a wrong turn and ended up lost in the science department. We blundered into a large lab where an archaeology seminar was in full swing. Skulls of dinosaurs and prehistoric beasts covered the walls, and there were dinosaur skeletons on plinths in the centre of the room, this being a museum room of sorts. As we tried to escape without being noticed, the skull of a Tyrannosaur fell off the wall and clattered to the floor. A piece of delicate bone filament snapped off and skittered across the floor. The ruckuss attracted the attention of the lecturer.

He seemed non-plussed by the damage, or indeed our presence, and we quickly explained that we had taken a wrong turn. Another student picked up the dramaged bone filament and replaced it with ease onto the skull. Perhaps it was only a model. I became interested in the seminar and didn't want to leave. The lecturer projected a holographic image of a giant prehistoric marine creature onto an empty plinth. I believe it was a helicoprion, a strange looking shark often called the buzzsaw shark on account of its bizarre lower jaw. The holographic creature unfurled its coiled lower jaw and began using it as a pump to draw microscopic creatures into its mouth. The behaviour was speculative, as most of paleontology is.

Indian Forest

I don't think I have any readers on this blog, but if there are any lurkers, you may have noticed that the last six entries have been old dreams pulled from my archive. The reason for this is that I've been too busy to write them down lately. I've dreamt about a giant moth fluttering at the patio doors, monstrous creatures (including mutant bats and a werewolf with a fleshy sac erupting from its chest) laying siege to my house, and a fair amount of Brighton ambulatory excursions. My latest dream took place in the sweltering forests of India.

The forest seemed more like a British wood, for having never explored a real tropical jungle (at least not in recent memory), my unconscious mind could not paint the appropriate canvas. There were sweaty ferns, swarms of midges and the vastness that one might expect be found in a genuine jungle, but most of the trees and plants were of a variety found closer to home. Whilst I was aware of the presence of exotic animals such as Indian rhinos, Asiatic black bears, and tigers, I did not see any of them. Nonetheless, the thrill of knowing that these exciting and dangerous animals were around kept the hairs on the back of my neck sufficiently tingled. 

I was with a group of people and we were camping out in the jungle, which I'm now tempted to call 'woods'. When darkness fell, we had to rely on our torches for light, and the primal fears began to kick in. The torch battery was only good for brief bursts of light, a few seconds at most, but we had also been instructed to save the battery for another reason, namely that prolonged illumination might attract unwanted predators. With this in mind, I was still eager to explore and see what animals might come out at night, so I went for a walk around camp.

Intermittently flashing the torch upwards towards the tree canopy, I was unsettled to discover that we were surrounded by a huge number of monkeys. The beam did not stay on long enough to discern what species they might be, but they were various, of all shapes and sizes. With some few exceptions, monkeys are by nature diurnal animals, and this is the second time this year I've dreamt about them being active at night. I write 'active', and yet for the most part they simply sat, squatted, hung and perched amongst the branches and vines overhead, albeit ominously. I became very conscious that at any moment I could be hit by a stream of urine, or worse, faecal matter. I returned to camp heavy with fear and foreboding.

Heads and Isopods

Some weeks back I was having dreams of a grotesque nature involving severed human heads. The first one I tried to ignore by not writing it down, but then the second one took place and forced me to take notice. My dreams can be vital clues as to what's going on in my life, and they have often proven to be downright prophetic. I ignore them at my peril. In the first dream, I was at Heartbreak Hotel in the dining room and kitchen area, being forced to look after the severed head of a man. It was a ghastly green in colour, and sat on a plate in the fridge, wrapped with clingfilm. Because I pushed the dream out of my mind, I don't remember too well the specifics of what happened, other than that the head may have been somewhat alive, and it had unpleasant appendages trailing off from it. If memory serves, the dogs were trying to eat it.

I have a clearer recollection of the second dream, which took place about a week or two later. This time the head in question was female, and she was most certainly dead, long dead if the state of her flesh was anything to go by. Emaciated and sickly green, her face was warped into a tortured scream, not unlike the skeletal corpse maquettes used in Spielberg films such as Poltergeist and Indiana Jones. Again, I was in possession of this head, and I was simultaneously attracted and repulsed by it. I may have purchased it from eBay. I placed the head between two large slices of bread to make a macabre sandwich, pressing them tightly together. The brittle skull cracked with the pressure, and green putrescence oozed out forming an unholy butter. Horrified by what I had done, I withdrew the head and placed it in a plastic jiffy bag. The sandwich had been intended for my dog, but the green gunk looked so nauseating and unwholesome, I threw them away.

I was then consumed by the fear, and I wanted to dispose of the head as soon as possible. I enlisted the help of a gang of teenagers, instructing them to bury it at the local cemetery, in such a way that it could never be traced back to me by police. After their briefing, which formed the longest section of the dream, they headed out into the night with torches and the offending head in a bag. However, they proved to be a bumbling, inept lot, and the operation was unsuccessful. That same night, a vagrant's dog dug up the head from its shallow grave, and the next day, the graveyard was swarming with police. I woke up before anything could be linked back to me, and I must confess that these severed heads have had me puzzled. I can't make head or tail of it. Were severed heads ever covered in Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams?

More recently, a few nights ago, I had another dream that revulsed me. There were no decapitated heads this time, but rather an appalling marine creature that will most certainly be making a future appearance in my novel's gallery of horrors. I was at a rundown zoo, as I usually am in dreams, making my way through an indoor aquarium. As I approached the exit, my face was almost brushed by a long spiny feeler extending over the top of an open tank. I flinched away and noticed a crowd of people gathered around the owner of the offending appendage. It was a giant isopod Bathynomus giganteus, a bottom-dwelling creature that exists in real life, but with some noticeable differences. The isopod resembles a giant woodlouse, complete with segmented carapace. In the dream, whilst retaining its vital anatomy, it also had long spiny antennae like a lobster, with coarse bristle pads at the ends of them.

I watched with mounting revulsion as a woman in a dark fur coat approached the isopod, which was hanging over the top of the tank, and embraced it. The isopod wrapped its feelers around the woman's head and began tenderly stroking her with the bristles. The woman brought her face up to the creature's complicated maw and kissed it, her lips pushing passionately against its chittering mandibles, her tongue thrusting deep into its mouth parts. As its many pointed limbs and feelers convulsed in sexual excitement, I could only stand and observe in horror. The kiss grew more passionate, the woman's hands roving over the isopod's carapace. People filmed the occasion on their mobile phones, as my stomach flip-flopped in sheer disgust. When the deed was done, and the woman was forced to move on by the crowd of visitors, I saw that she was crying.

"It was such a spiritual experience," she sobbed, wiping her eyes, as her friends consoled her. "Did you manage to film it? I need to put it on my Instagram." I caught a strong whiff of musky perfume as she passed, and guessed by her accent that she was foreign, possibly Eastern European or Russian. Whenever I think about the dream, I feel the bile rising in my chest. 

Potholing and Hotdogs

A couple of weeks ago, before contracting Covid, I dreamt that I was caving at Heartbreak Hotel. On the top floor is a crawlspace in the wall, a sort of sideways loft, and it was in here that we used to dump all our unwanted belongings. As a result, the loft was filled with all manner of paraphernalia: books, soft toys, PC games, college coursework, bags of clothes, etc. Whenever someone went in there, Daddy would hear the door opening and shout "You'd better not be dumping!" This time we were not dumping, we were excavating and caving. 

Similar to the phantom hallway in Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves, a strange hole had appeared amongst all the clutter. After some time spent tentatively probing it, I decided to launch a full scale expedition down there alone, with a rope tied around my waist. Li and my sisters watched as I cleared away armfuls of junk from the opening and lowered myself down. Each time the wooden beams supporting the crawlspace creaked from our movements, Daddy would shout up, "Get out of the loft!" I ignored him and lowered myself into the hole, confident he would never find me.

I shone a torch down the twisting shaft, but was unable to see too far down on account of all the clutter. It was necessary to excavate lots of it by throwing it up through the opening above me. At each turn in the descent, more rubbish needed to be cleared away, and as the bags of toys and clothes piled up above me, a real sense of claustrophobia started to kick in. I remembered John Jones trapped down in the Nutty Putty Cave, the same thing could easily happen to me, suffocating under heaps of accumulated household stuff. The minimalist in me was also deeply distressed, but it was too late to turn back, the hole must be conquered.

Sadly, I never got to finish the potholing, for the dream transitioned to something new. I was with Sir David Attenborough in a large warehouse, along with a worker conducting us on a tour. Tall metal shelves towered above us, and suspended on metal rods from the ceiling were cylindrical shaped packages resembling nuclear warheads or torpedoes. "Are those... sausages?" David asked, chuckling at the very idea. "Technically hotdogs," the tour guide told us, "this is a hotdog factory."

"My goodness," David laughed, exceedingly tickled by this revelation. Indeed, the weiners above us were of an immensity that would impress even the staunchest of vegans. I noticed then that the unwrapped ones were skewered on huge rotisseries, slowly rotating as they cooked. On the walls were stacks of grills, where smaller variants, but still gigantic by sausage standards, were being cooked. These would then roll off the trays and be tightly wrapped ready for shipment. They still looked more like sausages than hotdogs.

"Would you like to borrow one?" the tour guide asked us. "Oh yes please," said David, "my wife would be very interested in seeing such a giant sausage." I wasn't sure that I could return one of these monster hotdogs in a pristine state, so I asked if I could buy one instead. "This would feed my family for a week," I explained. The guide was unsure, they usually only loaned them out, but he went to fetch some giant boxes and to ask his supervisor. Whilst I waited, I wondered what use these things would be if we weren't allowed to eat them.