Seaton Delaval Hall

A signficant return to Seaton Delaval Hall. I dreamt about it only a few nights ago, when I drove past with my wife and daughter on our return to Whitley Bay. It's time to take note when a location recurs so soon. The haunted hall, much like it used to do in real life, offered the rooms out to guests for the night, so they could enjoy a spooky experience. As we were still holidaying in Whitley Bay, we decided to visit the hall to see what it was like inside. There were only two rooms available to stay in, both in the central building, on the top floor.

The main room, and the one in which most people stayed, was an expansive loft, with rough wooden floorboards and splintery beams. Guests were expected to bring their own tents to the unfurbished space, which would typically be set up in the middle of the floor. This attic was pitch black, lit only by whatever light the campers brought with them, in this case, a small paraffin lamp. There were no windows, yet around the circumference of the loft, the floor ended, falling away into blackness. And black it was readers, blacker than anything I had ever experienced in dreams or the waking world. A malevolent presence hung about the place, and it was said that many a visitor experienced terrors beyond their wildest imaginings.

The loft was reputed to be the site where the White Lady had originally comitted suicide, after discovering that her baby was dead, throwing herself from a window, which had since been boarded up. Part of me knew I was dreaming, so, beckoned by the irresistable darkness where the floor fell away to meet the sloping roof, I threw myself into the void. My reasoning was that I would die and respawn. But panic filled me as I fell, into the soft, musty darkness. Down, down I went, into the fabric of the house, inside the walls, irretrievable and choking, sinking into the ashes and dust and fouling tar. It was a horrible situation, and an awful way to go, as my wife and daughter waited above. 

I inhaled mouthfuls of the noxious blackness, filling my lungs and hoping for a swift death. I've never died in a dream before, but this time I did. My death was so traumatic, my unconscious brain dragged me out, back to the loft. I did not experience relief, but rather fear that my daughter might accidentally fall in next and experience similar suffering. Her small body would never be found, not even if the entire hall were to be demolished, so deep and claustrophobic were those shadowy recesses. It was like the out-of-bounds, liminal sections in video games, uncoded and inaccessible. A Nutty Putty hell.

We left the horrific loft to check out the other room available to guests. This one was a proper room, with a double bed, curtains, and some furniture. It was a small room, designed for less adventurous couples who wanted a more comfortable stay. There was a large round window with spokes, such as might be found in a clocktower. Despite the admittance of light, and the domestic comforts, the close proximity to the loft exuded enough evil energy that we had no desire to spend the night or remain a moment longer. I told Li how terrifying it must be to stay in those quarters. On the way out, I wrapped myself in an old fashioned night dress and pretended to scare our daughter as the White Lady.

Osgood Tarsiers

Osgood Smiths is a confectionary warehouse in Colchester where I worked for a large part of my teenage years. I continued working there during my first year at universisty to pay for my fees. It was a miserable place, with tedious, backbreaking work assembling sweet, crisp, drink and cigarette orders for local newsagents. I still dream about the place now and again, and the dreams are always just as boring as the reality. Last night I was back, post university, pursuing the same relentless, mindnumbing order assemblage. This time there was a difference, in that Sam Hearn, a former university friend, also had a job there. We were communicating through headsets, despite it being his day off. 

A typical shift would involve taking a paper order from the tray on the boss's desk and having to hunt down the items in the warehouse, keeping them on a pallet ready for packing They would then be strapped up into bundles on a machine, shrink wrapped, then labelled, scanned, and entered into an invoice on an old LED computer with a black screen and green letters. There were now animals in the warehouse, primates and parrots, which customers could order to buy. I was going through my rounds when I noticed an order for two tarsiers on my clipboard. A tarsier is a small, nocturnal primate from Southeast Asia. I found the ones I was looking for in a corner of the warehouse, near the Coca Cola bottles. They were clinging to a long wire branch, covered in cobwebs and clumps of their moulted, woolly grey fur.

I was a little bit scared of these bug-eyed, scratchy-clawed critters, so rather than attempt to pick them up directly, I took hold of the wire branch they were clinging to and carried it back to my pallet. On the headset, Sam Hearn was talking about how his favourite animal order to assemble was a 'blue monkey.' My sister, Fallon, was hovering near my pallet, slacking off, and she came over to inspect the tarsiers. We noticed that they had shed their tails. These were eventually found on the dirty warehouse floor, like little brushes. I was able to re-attach them to the primates, as though with velcro. The tarsiers leapt onto my chest and I began to wonder how I was supposed to get them ready for packing. I did not want to ask In the Corner, the giant boss who ran the warehouse.

Return to Whitley Bay

This year, all going well, I plan to take a short holiday at Whitley Bay, in Newcastle. I lived there for four years when I was young, and although I do not have many pleasant memories of the place, it was after all, a coarse and anti-intellectual coal-mining community back then, it does feature as a prominent location in the novel I'm writing. I therefore plan to return for research purposes. A few nights ago I returned there rather earlier than I had anticipated, in the land of nod. 

In the dream, I drove there with my wife and daughter, a long journey from the south coast. My parents are planning to come with us in real life, but in the dream, I had forgotten to make plans with them. I was sending them Whatsapp messages to the family group, throughout the dream. The first recognisable location we drove past was Seaton Delaval Hall. I explained to my wife that as a boy I was driven past this foreboding mausoleum on my way to school every morning, eels twisting themselves into knotted nerves in my belly, for it was a grey and vicious school, and I hated it. 

Each morning, as we approached the gravel drive, where we would have a brief glimpse of the estate, walled in by trees, we would crane our necks and frantically scan the many windows, seeking a glimpse of the fabled White Lady. Like so many of these stately homes, she was reputed to haunt the grounds at night, and could often be seen by locals standing at an upstairs window. None of us ever did see her, but that didn't curb our enthusiasm. I explained to my daughter on the back seat that there was a ghost in the building, passing on the excitement to the next generation.

Our glimpse of the hall was over, and we were on the stretch of road that led to my old secondary school, Seaton Sluice Middle School. A terrible place if ever there was one, but I wanted to see it again. It was a weekend and the school was closed, but the gates were open and we were able to go in to explore. We explored the canteen, a place I don't have any memory of, but in the dream, I was surprised to see that nothing had changed from my 'dream memory.' The old plastic tablecloths were still draped over the table, showing their age, a polar theme stamped upon them, ice floes and seals. 

We left the slightly creepy canteen behind and reached the seafront, where there resided the iconic Spanish City, a former amusement park with an elaborate entrance resembling a Sultan's summer palace, bleached white. The place had seen better days, and now resembled a crumbling ruin with chipped paint and exposed meshwork. The whole promenade was dead, a forgotten glimpse into a past that had not moved on. Lonely, bleak, and utterly uncompromising in its melancholia, I watched the tired sand dunes as we drove farther up the coast, seeking out our budget hotel.

Cooksbridge Condors

It was a grey sort of day, and I was looking at the garden through the patio windows when I noticed two rather large birds in the field beyond the fence. You know how your eye is instinctively drawn towards anything out of the pale? Well it was this scenario. "Li, come and look at these weird birds!" I called to my wife, who came over. The birds were larger than pheasants, the birds we're used to seeing in the field, and far more rotund, almost like turkeys. Their feathers were speckled brown, like a hen's, but their heads and necks were bald and wrinkled. Sexual dimorphism indicated that a male and female were present. After pecking around in the ditch, they waddled up the bank and into our garden. It was then I could identify them as condors.

Condors are large birds. The Andean condor has one of the largest wingspans of all flying birds, and the largest of all raptors. I do not know what species these were, but as they drew nearer to the glass doors, I realised there was something monstrous about them. I got my phone out to take photos, but as is always the case in dreams, the camera wouldn't work. The condors had spotted us, and rather than take off, as most birds would, they came closer still, right up to the glass. They had long, hideous crocodilian snouts, brimming with sharp teeth. Their snouts clattered against the window as they tried to bite us. Eventually, when they realised they weren't getting through, they wandered off.

Next to visit our garden was a huge fuzzy Procoptodon, a kind of prehistoric kangaroo. It bounded into the middle of the lawn, turned to look at me with its bear-like face, then leaped away again. I think I may have managed to get a photo this time. Later on in the dream, more exotic creatures made an appearance in the field. They were peafowl-like birds, equipped with razor spurs and shimmering, metallic tail feathers. Quite a curious assemblage.

Bat Tree

I've started to have considerably more dreams set in Cooksbridge, and two nights ago, one of them became rather more iconic than the usual fare. There was a big old rambling house at the side of the road, completely overgrown and dilapidated, lived in by a reclusive pensioner. Dominating the front lawn was an immense tree of a tropical variety, something like a spreading fig with overhanging branches and lots of dangling foliage - I'm not very good with trees! It excuded a stickly, slightly sour aroma, evidence of it being from a much warmer clime. Roosting in this dark and foreboding tree, well-hidden within the fronds, was a colony of medium-sized fruit bats, or megabats. Two species were present: Egyptian fruit bats, and a larger Epauletted fruit bat (exact species unknown), although I'm not sure how I possessed this information as I'm almost as bad as identifying bat species as I am trees.

I had to pass by the tree on my dog walks, and as the tree was bursting out over the pavement, I invariably came into close proximity to the bats. For the most part, they kept to themselves, hanging upside down in concealment, their leathery wings wrapped tightly around this bodies. The bats would leave the tree at dusk to go foraging, but what they ate around here was a mystery. There was a sinister narrative involving a diamond which was allegedly hidden inside the house, but I forget the details. The bat tree stuck in my mind throughout the day, and I got to wondering what might have triggered it, or what it could represent, if anything. I wondered if there was anything threatening about my dog walks that had permeated by unconscious. The majority of the dream had me back at university as a student, stressing about assignments and deadlines, a recurring theme.

Beethoven Conference

It was a Sunday and I was playing DayZ when Li reminded me that I was due at the university for an interview on Beethoven that I'd signed up for. The classical music association was looking for gamers to offer their input on the great composer. The process involved mailing my PS2 to them, to prove that I was a gamer. My acceptance letter was included in the return parcel and I saw that the other participants had all dropped out, leaving me as the last remaining guest. I had been promoted to lead speaker, and I was to head the all day conference, running from 9am to 5pm in the evening, followed by refreshments.

I arrived at the university as a bundle of nerves, having had no time to prepare anything. I took my place at the lectern in the lecture theatre, which weirdly, was in the middle of the tiered seating, so everyone in front had to look behind them to see me. I don't remember how I opened the conference, but I must have stated everything I knew about Beethoven in those first fifteen minutes. When I ran out of material, my voice began to falter, my speech became incoherent, and eventually the flight response kicked in. I fled to the back of the lecture hall, at the top of the seats, where some changing rooms awaited.

Once inside, I changed out of my suit and into an informal yellow t-shirt with jeans, hoping to blend in with the student crowd and make my escape. Since abandoning the mic, some students had been invited up to read their poems, and a pianist played a few of Beethoven's pieces. I slid awkwardly over the backs of the seats to get to the bottom of the theatre. On my way, I saw a lot of sterm looking men in top hats, seated towards a shadowy alcove at the back of the hall. In addition to these sombre audience members, there were was a university sports team, and a gaggle of summer school students.

I sank into a chair on the front row and tried to make myself small. It was to no avail, for the moment I was spotted, the woman organising the conference reinvited me to retake the mic. A burst of andrenaline took over, and I decided to end this harrowing case of imposter syndrome and admit the truth. I reached the lectern, and in a shaky voice, I admitted that I had no idea why I was here, or what I was expected to do. Before I could complete my sentence, the pianist jumped in with an aggressive sonata and drowned me out. I waited, defeated, furiously wracking my brain for more things to say about Beethoven.

I remembered the famous quotation, 'written from the heart, may it go to the heart' but I wasn't confident that I had it down correctly. Fortunately, my daughter woke me up from the nightmare at that point, at 5am in the morning. I had never been more relieved to hear her crying.

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.