Seaside Depot

A familiar and recurring location manifested itself in this dream, namely a seaside resort sharing elements of real life locations. I had recently passed my driving test and was allowed to venture forth by myself for the first time. No longer beholden to public transport, I took my dog, Beibei, and drove for about an hour until I came to the aforementioned place. My vehicle was a curious thing. Taller than it was wide, it resembled a miniature bus fitted with flashing disco lights around the bonnet. It ran on electricity instead of petrol. I drove it through the ticket barrier into a multi storey car park but, being a new driver and lacking confidence, I allowed a nearby valet to park it in a bay for me. He also performed a cleaning service. I left Beibei behind, with the windows cracked, and ventured out onto the pier.

It was a grey, brisk day, and the sea gleamed with a milky haze. There were many leisure amenities on the pier, including a large building called the Seaside Depot. It was a mall-like complex containing arcades, restaurants, bars, a theatre, cinema, swimming pool, etc. There was also an outdoor fair with rides, and a zoo with a monorail running through it. I was supposed to be attending a live stand up performance featuring a famous comedian but his name completely escapes me now. I don't like comedy and had probably been peer pressured into it. Still, I was happy to be exploring a new place and trying something different. I asked two charity collectors sitting outside the gates where I could buy a ticket, and they handed me a map of the complex.

Scanning the map for the hall where the comedy act was supposed to take place, I was excited to see that the outdoor zoo had a section labelled 'African Savanna' marked with hippo icons (my favourite animals), but unfortunately I woke up before I got to see them. I entered the Depot and followed a maze of corridors searching for the main reception. As I ventured deeper into the complex and had a good look around, all thoughts of the comedy act were forgotten. The zoo itself had been enough to tempt me to change my plans, and I determined to fully scout out the area with a view to bringing my child along on one of our Daddy and Daughter days. I descended a staircase and was met with the reek of chlorine.

I was in a long, clinically-lit passageway full of complex pipework, pumps, and filtration devices. Water sloshed over the sides of rectangular basins lined up along both sides of the passage, the tops of which were at hip level to myself. This is recurring dream imagery I've had since I was a child, so I had a good idea of what to expect. Ear-splitting whistles and screams suddenly rose above the whirr of machinery, the gurgle of water, and the clanking of pipes. In the narrow water troughs on the left, I saw the white, rounded, melon heads of belugas bobbing up and down. Belugas have featured in my dreams a lot since I saw them in a Beijing aquarium and was deafened by their screams. I have always felt that they are too large to keep in captivity, and their tanks in the dream were little more than water troughs.

Farther along, at about the midway point of these strange holding tanks, I came across another curious sight. On the right hand side, an even smaller tank held two blue wildebeests. They aren't actually blue, that's just their species name. Although wildebeest are strong swimmers, having to navigate fast-flowing rivers, they are most certainly not aquatic, or even semi-aquatic beasts. They huddled together, lower halves submerged in the water, their top halves slumped against the wall. Sodden manes plastered against shivering necks, dripping beards, and rolling, bloodshot eyes gave me the the impression of miserable old men in a bathtub. A typical feature of these dreams is to have animals squashed into tanks that are far too small for them, paddling pitifully in tight circles, or wallowing listlessly like these wildebeest.

I left the hall of tanks behind and came into a carpeted lobby with an American diner off to the side. The smell of cooking made me hungry. I noticed that some people had their dogs with them on leads, so I decided to head back to the car for Beibei. Once there, dream logic kicked in and my daughter was also in the car with Beibei. She was covered in bad eczema rashes and I began applying her cream whilst telling her about the place I had discovered. I awoke soon after this, filled with a desire to visit the beach. Our subsequent trip to Brighton was a bad idea. I got into an argument with an interfering woman accusing me of animal abuse because I tied Beibei up outside the swing park. I also had an unpleasant encounter with a charity salesman, prompting me to wonder if my dream had not been slightly prophetic.

Automaton Invasion

The dream has started to fade because I wasn't quick enough writing it down, but about a week ago I had my first real nightmare of 2022. Now and again I'll have a dream of apocalyptic proportions, usually involving impending doom, and very often from the sky. It can be a war breaking out, an otherworldly invasion, a satellite falling towards Earth. The most outrageous to date was an army of mecha-Nazis descending onto university campus from orbit and pulverising all the students with laser guns. My latest dream of this category did not reach the stage where chaos reigned free, but in some ways, this made it all the more stressful.

I was in the city, whether Brighton or London I couldn't say (perhaps an amalgamation of the two, or maybe somewhere else entirely), and I was sitting in a cafe trying to write my novel. The government had been particularly callous of late, doing all the usual things that make people moan such as raising taxes, removing job seeker support, cutting public sector funding, withdrawing resources from the NHS, etc. Anyway, as I do not normally take much interest in these matters, I was wholly unprepared for the news that the UK was arming for war.

This in itself would not have been a matter of immediate concern, but as public panic spread and more speeches from the Prime Minister were broadcast, I realised it was going to affect me in the worst way imaginable. Every citizen, whether eligible or no, was being compulsorily conscripted to the coming war. The government claimed that we faced a threat such as never before seen in the history of our nation. An army of automatons were on their way to annihilate us, not just to conquer, but to wipe us off the map. As the British army had been almost completely eradicated at the first encounter, they needed to swell their ranks with us civilians. 

Obviously, such alarming news was not to my liking. It was plainly obvious that Boris was throwing us to our deaths. There would be no military training, no time for any of that, we were report to the nearest garrison to sign up, be issued our weapons, and deployed without further ado. Certain individuals of high rank, or those who simply curried favour with the party, were being awarded special exemption passes, and it was these that everyone now wanted to get their hands on. Chaos engulfed the streets, riots broke out, and huge bodies of civilians tried to flee overseas.

What was I to do? I had a family to think about, I had no disabilities to announce, nor loopholes to exploit, yet signing up would be suicide. Besides, everybody was being conscripted, able-bodied or not. I was unsurprised to see that the usual left-wing hand wringers had suddenly forgotten to care about the oppressed minority groups, being much too wrapped up in their own cowardice to extend sympathy and outrage elsewhere. I wandered aimlessly, doing my best to avoid the police who were rounding up unwilling conscripts just like me. 'I need to get to China', I decided, but it was too late for that.

This nightmare is a very obvious manifestation of the stress and sense of doom I have been suffering from of late. This has been triggered by more family members catching Covid, the illegal shenanigans at No. 10, bouts of self-inflicted insomnia, and the climate crisis that continues to chip away at our existence, though which is largely ignored. I would also like to blame doom scrolling before bed, and also paedophiles, because why not? 

Beggars and Bears

I was hoping for a good Brighton dream because I enjoy exploring the city's dreamscape and Dadaist architecture. Last night's offering was quite stressful, but there were some incidents worth noting down. Chaos had engulfed Brighton, with anti-lockdown protests and parties springing up all over the city. The authorities were overwhelmed, shops and pubs were overtaken by rowdy punks and anti-vaxxers, whilst the streets crawled with rioters, drug addicts, radicalised beggars, and Chinese grifter gangs taking advantage of the disorder. I roamed these mean streets in the dark, avoiding people whilst trying to carry out obscure errands.

A female heroin addict beseeched me for money to feed and clothe her daughter, reaching skinny, puncture-addled arms towards me. I knew that this particular beggar really did have a neglected child confiscated by social services. A volunteer careworker would often take the kid swimming at the local baths, before lying on the hard tiles to dry off, looking at the stars and dreaming of a better life. I did not give the troubled mother any money, so she shouted obscenities at me, cursing my white male privilege. Next I was accosted by two shady middle-aged Chinese women. They were hustlers trying to sell contraband or trafficked prostitution services, I did not stick around to find out what.

Suddenly desperate for the toilet, I tried to enter a nearby bookshop but it had been turned into a rave venue, with people queuing from all over to get in. Farther on, I ducked into a less popular nightclub and finally secured an empty cubicle. The toilets were covered in graffiti and illuminated by green glowsticks, with two punks in the stall next to me doing drugs. Whilst I relieved my bladder, they stuck their heads up over the top and watched me. I had a full tank to empty and was a captive audience whilst they gloated. I then realised that I was stark naked, a cliche to be sure, and I spent the next part of the dream stumbling around dark alleyways trying to find my clothes. Maybe this was punishment for my lack of charity. 

The dream moved on and I was in an unknown part of America, somewhere close to Canada. I have been there before. The air was cold and crisp, there were coniferous forests and mountains to the north, and everyone lived in sprawling rustic lodges with verandahs. I was working as a postman whilst my daughter attended a theatre trip organised by the local preschool. There was also a big concert featuring a famous singer about to start, but I had no idea who they were. My postal route took me to a row of detached cabins in a scenic part of town, with forest views and a fishing lake close to hand. With each property being so spaced out, my job was taking a long time to do accomplish. 

I looked at my next bundle of mail and saw that it was addressed to Steve Irwin. This surprised me, because the man has been dead these past sixteen years. Nevertheless, I went to the cabin indicated on the address, and started pushing the mail through a vertical letterbox. The door opened before I could finish, and there stood Steve Irwin, dressed in his familiar khaki croc-wrangling gear. Somehow, he had returned, or never died in the first place, and I was too polite to ask. Feeling somewhat sheepish that I had been publicly slandering him on Reddit recently, I handed him his parcel and bid him good day. Halfway down the road, I found some more letters for him that I had missed.

As I dithered on the road, I saw a grizzly bear lurking near the treeline. It did not seem particularly interested in me, but even so, I nervously backtracked to Steve's house. He was ready at the door when I arrived, having seen me from his window. I handed him the remaining letters and asked if the bear's presence was normal. "Yup, perfectly normal, happens everyday mate. They're after our fish!" he replied. I departed a second time and headed to the theatre to collect my daughter. On the way, I reflected on Steve's mysterious reappearance. His wife and family were still in Australia, so I wondered whether they had separated, or could he have purposefully faked his own death and gone into hiding?

Ruminating thus, I stepped out onto a playing field I needed to cross to reach the theatre. It had been freshly turfed and was excessively springy underfoot. I jumped to test its springiness and bounced half a foot into the air as though it were a trampoline. This was so much fun, and I began to bounce up and down like a child. Behind me I noticed a girl from university, on her way to the concert. I felt self-conscious that she had seen me bouncing on the grass, but then immediately thought to myself, 'so what?' I bounded a few more times to prove that I didn't care. 

Cooksbridge Living

Since my first update I have dreamt about a seedy establishment in Brighton, a shameful rerun of my sister's wedding in Nottingham, and a depressing house party in Cooksbridge. None of these were sufficiently wholesome or engaging enough to write down. Last night's dream barely qualifies either, dealing as it does with incipient provincial affairs. However, it is a good establishing scenario.

I moved to Cooksbridge in 2019, and since then have had only a handful of dreams about the place, usually involving a haunting. These days, I am unworried about using real place names. My trolling days are long over and the threat level of undesirables tracking me down is low, especially if I can bore them to death first. Hopefully this dream can manage it.

I was new to the area, as were my neighbours, and we were attending social events to integrate ourselves with the community. In real life, Cooksbridge is a sleepy rural village with a low population. Farm shops, pubs, and a petrol station are the sole amenities. In the dream, the place was more of a bustling market village. It was mid summer, and the fields were green and gold.

The old guard were visiting me from Colchester, Dylan and Charlie, and we spent some time in Lewes looking for places to have breakfast. Back in Cooksbridge, we attended a farmer's market, which took place in the beer garden of a fictitious pub. I was dressed in an ornate, red silk suit, and many flat-capped, cider-sipping locals turned their heads in my direction. I was worried lest my friends got drunk and made a bad impression.

My neighbour Helen was also at the pub, and we had a long chat over a bottle of wine. The farmers seemed wary but intrigued about the presence of strangers in their midst. When it was time to leave, several of them came over to introduce themselves and to ask our names, crushing my hand with meaty, calloused handshakes. One of them, an aged gentleman farmer (we'll call him Bill) seemed particularly interested in Helen.

My sisters paid their visits to me next, and it's worth noting that my house was not the one I live in. It was a rambling country homestead surrounded by fields and orchards. As I sat in the open access garden, Bill passed by and beckoned me over for a chat. He asked many pointed questions about Helen, and I gleaned that he was sizing her up as a prospective wife. I tried to discourage him, but for some reason did not impart that she was already married.

When I talked to Helen again later in the dream, she complained of his unwanted attentions, but also claimed she was treading carefully. Bill was an influential, respected member of the community and she did not want her family to be ostracised so soon after moving there. I wished her luck and returned to my house. My eldest sister had arrived and we began to bicker over who would use the bathroom first. Sometimes dreams can be a little too realistic for my liking.

Welcome to 2022

My first dream of 2022 involved me returning to my bedroom at my parents' house in Wivenhoe. This was the first room I lived in when we moved to the house (dubbed Heartbreak Hotel) some twenty-two years ago. I was fifteen and angry about moving away from Plymouth when I had pending GCSEs. 

The bedroom was on the ground floor, adjoining the bathroom, and it was the smallest in the house. I would later move upstairs, but a lot of my formative moments happened in that first boxroom. It was here that I sulked and schemed in my teenage angst, here that I received my horror film education courtesy of Channel 4, and here that... well I won't go into all that.

In the dream, I was on my computer Zooming with Film Club, listening to music and drinking, unaware of the time. Just like last night, it was New Year's Eve. I may have dozed off for a short while, and before I knew it, the sun was up and the new year had dawned. As is often the case in dreams, I was enrolled on a sixth form course that I rarely showed up for, a guilt I'm convinced stems from not finishing some modules and coursework in my third year of college. 

My mother called me out of bed, reminding me not to miss class. I trudged into the kitchen, dehydrated from the booze, and seeking orange juice. After drinking what I could find, I ransacked the fridge and retrieved a jar which turned out to be pickled potatoes floating in a viscous orange fluid. I returned it to the fridge in disgust.

My plan that day had been to cycle to college to attend class, but the uncharacteristically warm weather turned my head. Rather than waste time studying, I decided that I was in need of New Year purification. I took my daughter with me and we boarded a bus, full of refugees, bound for lower Wivenhoe. The bus dropped us off in the car park of the village's Community Centre, right on the coast. As the refugees retrieved their luggage from the bus, I took my daughter across the car park to look at the sea. 

In real life, Wivenhoe ends at the river Colne, in the dream it was sheer granite cliffs rising around us, enclosing a natural harbour. We scanned the incoming tide, looking for marine mammals. Gulls swooped among the breakers, and clusters of people in skimpy swimwear stretched and perched upon the jagged rocks, or bobbed in the water, oblivious to the chill they must have felt. The ocean has a very significant place in my dreams, something you will come to see if you read this blog enough.

I told my daughter that we would spend the night at the Community Centre with the refugees, lying on the floor in sleeping bags. A sign at the entrance put an end to such ideas, informing us that the space was strictly reserved for the use of foreigners. I am not so much interested in psychoanalysing my dreams as I am recording the loose narratives and observing what themes emerge over time. I hope the enterprise proves fruitful.

Aquarium Floaters

A couple of nights ago I dreamt about a new acquaintance for the first time. I was in their home city, visiting a museum that had an aquarium of sorts (places are never fully what they are supposed to be in dreams) and I was having a dismal time. Not only was the city a grey, featureless metropolis, but the museum aquarium was rundown and leaking. In the main foyer, some of the larger fish were able to swim around near the ceiling, seemingly suspended in thin air. There were red coloured tub gurnards (Chelidonichthys lucerna), bulky, medium-sized fish bumbling along in loose shoals like miniature fighter planes. I steered clear of those, for I am a raging icthyophobe, and I remember reading somewhere that a flying gurnard can kill you if it smacks into your head.

My friend decided she wanted to catch some of the fish and guide them back to their tanks. To do so, she brought with her a large hoop surrounded by hanging strips that acted like baffle boards. Using a pole, she raised the hoop towards the shoal, trapping a few of the fish and sweeping them back towards an open tank. She then tried the same on a baby reef manta ray (Mobula alfredi) that was also gliding in circles near the ceiling. The ray, despite being a baby, was too large to contain in the baffle hoop, so she gave up and turned her attention to a small hammerhead shark. I told her that it was a scalloped hammerhead (Sphyrna lewini), as distinguished by the notch in the centre of its 'hammer.' She was likewise unsuccessful in trapping the shark, and we left the museum to go somewhere else.

Colchester Zoo Revisited

When I resided in Colchester, I was a regular visitor to their zoo, which is ranked highly in Europe. The Colchester Zoo of last night's dream would not even pass WAZA standards, let alone make it onto a leaderboard of any description. I was there with my friend, D, and one of his friends from Devon, with whom I was unacquainted. The first enclosure we encountered was a grimy, indoor compound of Lubetkin's Disinfectant Era legacy, a tiled compound with puddles of stagnant water and heaps of dirty hay. Inside were hippos of both species, common (hippopotamus amphibius) and pygmy (Choeropsis liberiensis). They could only be viewed by squatting in an uncomfortable position and peering through windows that looked as though they had not been washed in at least a decade. The common hippos were slumped in miserable heaps of flesh in the corner out of sight, snoozing their lives away. The pygmies were more active, but nonetheless lethargic in their movements as they monotonously munched straw.

Around the corner from the hippos was an old-fashioned Victorian cage resembling a giant bird cage with a ring on top, where an iron chain might be attached. The bird cage was made up of rusty iron bars with wide gaps between them, easily wide enough to admit an arm or a leg. Around the cave was a stone spiral staircase that led up and outside. Inside the cage there sprawled a number of resting ligers, the hybrid offspring of a lion and tiger. They were cramped into the tight space with barely room to turn around. Without a thought to his safety, D's friend put his arm through the bars and tried to stroke one of the beasts. I warned him to withdraw it immediately, which he fortunately did. We tramped up the staircase to an outdoor courtyard of more cages, though of larger dimensions that the oppressive liger cage. There seemed to be no clear indication as to how animals were being grouped.

One of the cages was all ugly wooden beams connected by rusty mesh through which the guests could view the animals. Inside were stunted Bornean orangutans (Pongo pygmaeus) dragging their straw-ridden cloaks through the muck. Sharing the space with them was what an information sign claimed to be a dhole (Cuon alpinus), yet its hair was so matted and overgrown it could have been just about anything. A curious clacking sound attracted my companions over to another cage. I followed reluctantly, resigned to yet more squalid conditions. It was a bald ibis (Geronticus eremita) standing in a shallow pond and rattling its beak over and over. Its eyes were protruding and covered in a strange mesh of pulsing blue and pink veins. Eventually the ibis managed to dislodged one of these flaps of skin, pulling out the eyeball with it. which the ibis promptly swallowed. D's friend explained that the disease was caused by a 'crystallisation of unstable chromosomes.'

Window Skunks

Recently, new neighbours moved next door to me, yet besides a couple of conversations on the driveway, I have yet to get to know them properly. I dreamed that they had opened up an art appreciation society, with monthly gatherings at their home to discuss the woman's favourite artist, an impenetrable modernist from Los Angeles, who, to my shame, I pretended also to be a fan of to curry favour. Starved of intellectual conversation, I was desperate to be accepted into their inner circle, but unfortunately I drank too much wine and was unable to coherently converse about the artist at hand. I spent the afternoon embarrassing myself to the point where my imposter syndrome was laid bare for all to see. Feeling not a little sheepish, I retired next door to hang my head in shame.

For some obscure dream reason, my wife and I were also new homeowners in our house, and we explored the three stories of our new abode, discussing where our furniture would go. When we reached the second floor bedroom, we saw a large bay window with two panes of glass, forming a sort of lounge space within where one could sit on cushions, drink tea, read, and look down over the street. Just as I was about to draw back the inner window to check it out, I noticed a family of striped skunks (Mephitis mephitis) nesting in this alcove. My wife and I were excessively surprised, and remarked on how our daughter would react to this, but we were unwilling to slide back the glass and let them into the room. Upon noticing humans on the other side of the glass, the mother skunk began to talk.

"We need to leave babies! Come on, out, out, out, back through the way we came!" There was a metal grate over the outer window, yet the top left pane had come loose, and it was through this that the skunks now attempted to leave. "Please, don't leave on our account!" I told them as they attempted, one-by-one, to wriggle free. "It's a high drop to the pavement below," I continued, "you're liable to do yourselves an injury. Why not stay here until I call animal control, and they can help you get out." Although I could understand the skunks, they were incapable of recognising human speech, and my recommendations were given in vain.

The Neglected Horse

Sometimes I dream about having to care for an animal I have no experience with, resulting in a series of disastrous husbandry blunders. A couple of weeks ago it was a horse, and whilst having some limited experience with horses when I was much younger, I had no clue what I was expected to do. Indeed, to begin with, I did not even know that I had a horse, much less was expected to take care of one. It was a fine summer's day and I was out in the country, my family and loved ones scattered here and there following their own leisure pursuits. A skinny nag, not unlike Don Quixote's long-suffering Rocinante, trotted over to me, a nosebag attached to its head. 'This is my horse' thought I, as I gingerly attempted to mount her. After a few false starts whereupon I fully expected to feel a swift hoof ploughing into my midriff, I managed to attain the saddle.

I took the horse along a country trail at a modest plod, trying to remember the riding lessons I had learned so long ago. When my confidence had increased slightly, I moved from a walk to a trot, but was unwilling to go any faster. My sisters came towards me on horses of their own, more experienced and fully enjoying a spirited canter. "Show offs..." I grumbled. I noticed that my steed was agitated and kept trying to veer off the track looking for food. I leaned over her neck and saw with dismay that the nose bag was zipped shut, meaning the horse had probably not fed for quite some time. I opened the bag to let the horse feed, which it promptly did, gulping down the expired food that had turned into an unappetising brown sludge at the bottom of the bag.

My next concern was where to stable the horse, and where to let her graze. As anyone from the country knows, every field, hedge, dike, and ditch is owned by some red-faced, land rover driving nincompoop, so you may imagine my consternation in allowing the horse to graze just anywhere. Thus overburdened with this dilemma, I remounted the horse and turned her back the way I had come, hoping to find someone to advise me in my predicament. This dream was no doubt born from the anxiety currently ruining an otherwise idyllic existence, namely that of undergoing weekly driving lessons and feeling my complete inadequacy in the enterprise.

African Vista

I had another dream where the view outside my window did not match what I see in reality. I had awoken to find the house shrouded in mist, pressing thickly against the windows. Eventually it withdrew enough to show me that the town had been encircled by a towering fortification, such as might be found ringing the realm of Mordor. The looming grey walls rose oppressively from the mist, and were topped with spiked battlements that weighed heavy on my heart. I called my father to see if he could also see the walls from his residence. He told me that it was a Zionist government plot and to pay it no heed, the whims of power would change and the walls would melt away as swiftly as they had appeared. More confused than before, I ended the call and returned to the window to take photos. The mist had swept in again and concealed the view. Hoping to find a better angle at the back of the house, I went upstairs to the study window.

I was unprepared for the startling change of scenery. Rather than mist and the wall of doom, I was confronted with a sunny vista of an African wilderness replete with winding, sparkling rivers, emerald green swathes of well-watered veldt, in the middle distance, the ruins of a sandstone temple, and in the far distance, a majestic mountain range, above which an immense rainbow curved over the blue firmament. Roaming across this landscape in staggering numbers and variety were the beasts of the bush, all those well known species of an African safari. Rumbling elephants, loping giraffes, whooping zebra, grunting wildebeest, roaring lions, laughing hyenas, snorting rhinos, yawning hippos, snapping crocodiles, strutting ostriches, quarreling baboons, foraging warthogs, prowling cheetahs, galloping gazelles, and flocks of brilliant white egrets. I immediately took out my camera and began clicking away, overwhelmed with wonder, but worried lest the scene should dissolve before I could finish taking photos. As I tried to zoom in and focus on the pink gape of a hippo in full yawn, the camera died and the dream dissolved.

Jungle Safari

One does not usually associate South America with safaris, but I hear there are some jungle tours available, and these may have influenced my latest dream. During an extraordinarily long and stressful sojourn at an airport with my wife, from where we were trying to fly back to the UK from Europe, we were told to board a bus to another airport. This put me at a great disadvantage, as I was supposed to be meeting up with David Attenborough and embarking on an international ecological trip, starting at Costa Rica. Regretting the cancellation profoundly, I boarded the bus with my wife and we sat back for what promised to be a long and bumpy ride.

As we pulled away from the airport, the scenery around us changed, and we were on a muddy jungle trail punctuated every so often by corrugated metal shacks. It was whilst passing one such shack that I saw a green anaconda (Eunectes murinus) slithering out from behind a building. Despite its species name, this particular snake was its characteristic brown with black spots. As we were travelling slowly and forced to stop frequently due to the bad quality of the road, I had time to point out the snake to my wife, whereupon several other people on the bus also took an interest. We moved off again, and before long we saw a small jaguar (Panthera onca) wearing a collar and lead, clearly a roadside curiosity.

The air had a certain thickness, and the sickly sweet scent of the rainforest, yet as far as I knew, we were still supposed to be in Europe. More animals appeared out of the side windows, a wild boar (Sus scrofa), a serval (Leptailurus serval), greater rheas (Rhea americana), and a ragtag herd of camelids, most notably scruffy-looking llamas (Llama glama) and alpacas (Vicugna pacos) moulting clumps of shaggy hair. Mixed in with the llamas were some curious camel-like beasts I had never been before. Physically they resembled Bactrian camels, but they were rather longer and had dappled coats. Some locals on the bus told me that they were giraffe-camel hybrids, but I forget what they called them. They seemed to be bred for no purpose other than to look strange.

Israel Zoo

There's a highly recommended computer game called Planet Zoo, which I confess to buying an expensive gaming rig for, purely so I could play on the highest settings. The zoo simulation with linked to an online workshop where you can download other players' creations to explore and admire. Lacking the time to make elaborate builds, this has lately been my go-to strategy. In last night's dream, set in the future, the zoos I perused were ones I could visit in real life. The Israel Zoo caught my eye, and after confirming on the holographic catalogue, I arrived at the gates to see what I could see.

The zoo was on the coast, and the first enclosure, right at the entrance, was made for a killer whale (Orcinus orca). It swam around in his blue pool, only a low sandstone wall separating it from guests. I watched the tall dorsal fin slicing through the water, marveling at the rarely seen sight of a captive orca. Before I could head through the gates into the main zoo, I saw my dog Beibei barreling straight for the pool. With an excited leap, he cleared the low wall and splashed into the shallows. At the same time, a keeper had hauled a bucketful of fish into the pool, and it was these that my dog wanted to play with.

The killer whale made a beeline over to the fish, its exposed tongue shining bright pink in the sunlight. Oblivious to the danger, my idiot dog continued gambolling in the shallows with the fish. When he's wet, he somewhat resembles a sea-lion, and those being the natural prey of the killer whale, he was now on the menu. I whistled for him frantically, but as in real life, his recall is abysmal, and he ignored me. With a surge that caused a wave to douse myself and the plaza where I stood, the huge whale rushed at Beibei and closed its jaws around the nape of his neck. It proceeded to shake him like a ragdoll, tossing him free of the pool entirely. He struggled to his feet, still alive but with a deep wound on the back of his neck. I scooped him up ready to take him to the vets, annoyed I would have to forego the zoo.

Poltergeist! Poltergeist!

I awoke at 3 am unable to breathe. I sprang out of bed, sucked in mouthfuls of air until my lungs started working again, and then ran to the bathroom with an urge to vomit. The nausea thankfully passed, sparing me from that unpleasant situation. I was then scolded by my wife for having woken her and our daughter who both slept on the floor above, and it was in a grumbling state of mind that I fell back to sleep. I awoke again, this time with a feeling of intense sickness and my body gripped by an unearthly semi-paralysis. I stumbled out of bed and shakily climbed the stairs to the top floor, feeling as though I were fading from this world. My wife was in bed watching a bad horror film sequel, and in a chair next to her sat a film professor from the university, a middle aged woman whom I had never seen before.

I was invited into the bed on my wife's side, keeping away from the professor, who wore a face mask in-line with Covid-19 regulations. I told my wife of my symptoms and she advised me to stay still and watch the film until my discombobulation should pass. Her advice proved effective, and I soon I felt sufficiently strong enough to leave the room and head back downstairs to check on our daughter, who was now on the middle floor by herself. I knew immediately upon entering her bedroom that something was wrong. Sure enough, my instincts proved correct, for I perceived that her bed lay against the opposite side of the room from where it had previously been. She remained sound asleep, so I turned on the lights to wake her and find out how (and why) she had managed to move it all that way by herself.

When I saw the rest of the bedroom, I gasped in astonishment. The entire layout of the furniture and toys had changed, to the degree that it could not possibly have been done by her. Some of the toys and trinkets were stacked in precarious pyramids that a three year old would be unable to accomplish, heavy furniture had changed walls. With my debilitating sickness of earlier and this bizarre rearrangement of the room, I came to the swift conclusion that it was the work of a poltergeist. I ran into the hallway and attempted to shout out a warning for those upstairs, but fear had constricted by throat, and as is common in these situations, the words were stuck in a husky gurgle. I took a deep breath and tried again, shouting out "Poltergeist! Poltergeist!" as clearly as I could. I awoke again, most confused as to what was real and imagined. I had taken a few glasses of strong wine and some equally strong cheese before bed, so I lay the blame there.

Botanical Sanctum

According to last night's dream, there is a secretive botanical garden/ sculpture garden/ arboretum/ wellness centre (I will come up with a name for it) concealed behind high walls in the heart of a non-specified city in Holland. My driving instructor, along with a close, elderly companion of hers who rather resembled a crab apple, were taken there after our lesson was plagued by motorcycle hoodlums. She decided it was time to learn some holistic theory, such as finding one's balance and managing stress levels. I am less interested in the plot of this dream than I am in its extraordinary location, which I am resolved to feature in a novel. The instructor used a keypad to buzz us into the grounds, and once the electronic gates were closed behind us, the noise of the city was immediately subdued.

We followed a winding drive up a slope covered in strange ivy-covered stone sculptures of all shapes and sizes. Many of the sculptures were humanoid in form, but of an abstract design. Some cradled sundials or globes, others stretched out their arms in expressions of lamentation, while still others appeared to cowering, or attempting to shield themselves from harm. More often than not the people would lack definite features, and might have a stone sphere for a head, or else a triangular fin for a limb. Judging by their cracked and dilapidated appearance, along with the festering coils of ivy thrown over them, they had been around for a long time. I would have liked to have studied them at greater length, but we drove on and were soon pulling up into a small car park where we stopped and got out.

We entered a covered terrace where I was made to sit whilst the instructor and Crab apple went off to brew some herbal tea. A bearded groundsman threw me a shifty glance as he pottered about his duties. I saw a disordered array of nurseries, lobelias, and tall, musty shrubs covered in white, cobweb-like filaments. Although evidently well-tended, the plants did not look as healthy as they might have done, and the whole place had the reek of the sepulcher about it. Nearest to me was a metal table covered in potted Venus flytraps (Dionaea muscipula) the size of saucers. Their dark green jaws hung agape, large enough to take in a hand if one should brush unwarily by. When the ladies returned, I remarked to them on the great size of the plants and we conversed on the folly of triggering their jaws to close when trying to cultivate a healthy specimen. Having once owned one myself, I possess such knowledge of their care requirements.

I was made to fill out a privacy protection form, before receiving some instruction on mental balance. A group of Japanese teenage boys engaged in wellness pursuits caused a stone to fly in our direction, which startled the instructor. She reprimanded them, then Crab apple mysteriously withdrew. We indulged in mindful meditation and the flicking of stones in accordance with bodily chakras. Crab apple returned after over an hour's absence, and upon polite inquiry of where she had been, curtly declared that she had been on the toilet. There was then a bizarre gambling exercise on one of the nursery beds, where stashes of real money were used to display 'richness of spirit.' What all of this had to do with driving was beyond me. The instructor then seized my arm and told me we had been compromised and had to leave immediately.

Still confused, I followed her at a brisk jog back to the car. Crab apple followed behind, but fell away as we picked up the pace. When the instructor noticed that Crab apple had stopped, she told me that she must be the betrayer, and that our lives were in grave danger. At the car, a large branch had been shoved through the glass of the driver's window to impede our escape. I pulled it away and we sped off, passing the jungle of macabre statues whose arms seemed to be reaching out for us. "The sanctum is a cult who took in people from all over the city," the instructor explained, "delinquents and social outcasts, all those who need spiritual healing. But this place is old, and has a strict code of conduct." She jumped out at the gate, hastily re-entered the access code, and we were back into the anonymity of the busy city. I was never to learn the dark secret of the sanctum, but something tells me I am fated to return again.

Battle of the Whales

I knew it was only a matter of time before the tremendous and unnerving power of the ocean reclaimed its place in my dreams. Last night it arrived with gusto, providing a marine spectacle unlike anything I have yet experienced. I was with my sisters at a seaside resort, helping the middle sibling scout out a venue for her wedding reception. From the deck of a docked cruise ship, I leaned over the railing into the seething brine and saw a school of common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) gambolling just beneath the surface, their silvery lengths ghosting to and fro. I pointed them out to my sisters, whereupon our attention was then drawn to a much larger animal closer to shore. It was a killer whale (Orcinus orca) grabbing something from the beach and dragging it into the waves, unmistakable with its panda-like white eye patch and towering dorsal fin. This image was no doubt implanted in my mind from a rewatch of David Attenborough's The Trials of Life, of which the killers hunting seals is the signature image.

Before we had time to be suitably impressed by this largest member of the dolphin family, it was suddenly dwarfed by a pair of larger jaws that opened beneath it. The killer whale was scooped up and raised above the surface of the sea, floundering as helplessly as its own prey had been just moments before. The water churned and boiled as the newcomer rose into view, still attempting to swallow the orca. It was a gray whale (Eschrichtius robustus), a medium sized baleen whale once known as the 'devil fish' from their fighting prowess when hunted. Despite being considerably larger than the killer, even this mighty maw was not wide enough to gulp down its formidable prey. The killer whale, undisputed lord of its own domain, was unaccustomed to such rough treatment. What followed was a battle unrivalled in the annals of maritime history

Drawn by the blood, the killer whale's brothers came to his aid. They lunged at the gray whale, tearing out chunks of blubber. Despite the onslaught, the gray was unwilling to let go of its catch, and continued to toss it around like a rag doll, now more out of spite than any hope of consuming it. To balance the scales, more 'devil fish' appeared on the scene, wallowing like leaden submarines, blowholes gushing with hot vapour, churning up the sea with their rage. We stood and watched the battle from comparative safety, until it occurred to me to try and capture this astonishing spectacle. As is usually the case in dreams, my camera was unresponsive, and I failed to obtain any pictures. It was unclear who the victors were, for the ferocity of the fight had turned the water into a boiling cauldron of blood and spume.

South Downs Leisure Centre

There have been a handful of dreams lately featuring the familiar rundown zoo or aquarium, but none of them quite substantial or coherent enough to write down until last night's. I was driven far out into the countryside by my wife, who wanted to take me to a leisure resort she was in the habit of visiting for business purposes. As we drove through the glistening green hills of the Sussex Downs, I felt a boyish excitement not often experienced these days. The resort appeared, an extensive golf course, a fancy hotel, a fairground, zoo, prehistoric sculpture park, and swimming pool. I read the signs for the attractions in quick succession as we drove by. We were there to play golf, but I would much rather have visited the zoo and model park.

We parked up and entered the resort, removed our shoes, and scraped our bare feet on deposits of chalk that were scattered around. The reason behind this was never explained to me, and I did not ask. In order to reach the golf course, it was necessary to walk by one part of the zoo. My wife strode purposefully on, ignoring the beasts, but I gave each cage a cursory glance. They were arranged in a straight row of identically square, open air compounds, smaller than they should have been and shoddily maintained. It had the look of an underfunded Soviet zoo, or a Victorian menagerie, and the animals were in a poor state of neglect. It was the sort of place that would have been closed down immediately following an inspection.

The first few enclosures housed a number of small, rodent-like mammals I did not have time to identify, followed by specimens of the lesser monkeys. As we walked at a brisk pace, they passed by in a blur, but next came a family of gorillas (Gorilla gorilla), considerably malnourished and squatting on faeces-smeared concrete. The largest, a gangly male, tugged on his upper lip, which showed signs of advanced infection. The following pen had emaciated big cats, and the last in the row held a lone polar bear (Ursus maritimus), its gaunt, mange-ridden body convulsing in a kennel. I tried to point out this last animal to my wife, for it is rare to find polar bears in British zoos, but she was either uninterested or had seen it before.

We then entered a building that acted as an intermediary between the zoo and the funfair. I was horrified to see a grid of holes in the ground, with long snakes rearing ramrod erect from each. I noticed that they were cobras (Naja sp.) of various species, vividly coloured, the tight holes keeping them trapped in position and preventing them from escaping. They rather resembled the beds of garden eels one sees in aquaria, albeit with menacing hoods and flickering forked tongues. When we got too close, one of them lashed out and tried to bite us, but we jumped away at the last second. There was no barrier between the cobras and visitors, another instance of the resort's appalling safety standards. With the zoo behind us, we reached a shabby fairground, my ears filled with furious hisses.

Deer Park

Spring is finally here, and with it a spate of better weather. The sun alone has made a significant difference in lifting my mood. From my seat in the study, I can see the green fields stretching off towards a ramshackle farm with a rusty silo, and beyond that, the land ascends to a wooded rise, at the top of which stands a stately manor, majestically placed among the trees. This very English setting may have gone some way towards last night's dream which took place in a deer park.

I was in a car with my eldest sister, parked in the middle of a broad field. Ahead of us, the field gave way to woods, also on an incline. Gamboling at the edge of this woodland was a large herd of fallow deer (Dama dama). Like most animals in England, the fallow deer is not a native animal. They are thought to have been introduced from Sicily by the Normans, for sporting purposes. Perhaps the Duke might have known? The deer were in a sporting mood themselves, feeling the freshness of spring, and delighting in the vigor of their supple forms. The breeding season was in full fling, as evidenced by the rampant rutting and copulation taking place. The fawns, as yet too young to understand adult behaviour, mimicked their elders nonetheless. They pranced on their hind legs and boxed the air like mad March hare pugilists, an extraordinarily comical sight.

Further up the wooded slope, where the trees grew taller and closer together, I spotted an enormous western red deer (Cervus elaphus) stag, far larger than any deer has a right to be. It kept apart from its more frivolous cousins, aloof and elegant, gracefully picking its path through the trees with its head held high, its massive antlers scraping the tree branches. I tried to point it out to my sister, who was watching the fawns, but by the time she looked it had disappeared. We strained for another glimpse, and all we caught was its immense belly exposed for a few moments. The fallow deer herd moved further up the slope into the woods, causing the red to retreat. They threw themselves onto their backs and rolled around in the leaf litter, kicking their legs in the air. The fawns followed suit, tumbling head over tail down the hill.

After this leaf bath, the herd abandoned the woods and bolted downhill into the field, over to where our car was parked. We frantically wound up the windows, unaccountably worried lest they should stick their tongues inside. A large buck charged by too close, clipping the passenger side wing mirror. They surrounded the car, gazing at us with liquid eyes. I told my sister to back up to give them some space, taking care not to hit any of the fawns behind us. With the car in reverse, the inquisitive herd did not follow us. There was a nerve-jangling growl from outside, and through the window we saw a ferocious tiger (Panthera tigris) fighting a stag. They battled like coded animals in a video game, taking it in turns to land a blow. Eventually the tiger won by swatting the stag's head with its paw, killing it instantly. We drove away from the bloody scene before it had a chance to notice us.

What could this dream signify? A brief enjoyment of Spring and the renewal of life, only to be cut short? Perhaps the tiger was Covid-19?

Hippo Fecal Impaction

As the humdrum rainy days continue in a life filled with monochromatic greys, I have a singularly grotesque encounter to relate. I was out on a dog walk with my family, when drawing level with an old, disused sluiceway, I discovered that it was occupied by a bloat of hippopotami. On closer inspection, there were two different bloats, separated by a stone wall. One section of the sluiceway held pygmy hippos (Choeropsis liberiensis), whilst the other had their larger, more aggressive cousins, the common, or river hippos (Hippopotamus amphibius). It did not look like they were able to leave the water, being encircled entirely by a concrete barrier, yet all the same, I was concerned to see my daughter lean over and begin petting a hippo on the head.

I shouted at her to stop, then pulled her away. "Are they bad, daddy?" she asked me. I explained that they were unpredictable and dangerous. A crowd of other walkers had appeared, and they came to have a closer look. At the sight of so many people, one of the hippos raised its jowly head out of the water and yawned wide in warning, revealing a cavernous pink, marshmallow maw. I told Lucinda to take note of its yellow tusks, the sight of which caused her to shrink away in fear. As we were engaged thus in contemplation of these hideous beasts, there was a commotion in the water. One of the brutes, a great behemoth that must undoubtedly have been the beachmaster, or in this case, sire of the sluice, launched its hindquarters high into the air.

Two thirds of the behemoth's prodigious bulk was now revealed, full taller than a man, its stumpy hind legs splayed apart, flaccid tail spinning like a pinwheel. As any zoologist worth his salt knows, a hippo defecates by raising its rear in the air and scattering dung in all directions. Before I could take evasive maneuvers, I was appalled to witness the corpse of another animal half ejected from its swollen anus. I recognised the bony, desiccated body of a wildebeest, and realised with horror that the hippo must have swallowed it whole. Hippos are by nature herbivorous, although recent findings have discovered that they will sometimes eat meat in times of drought. Even so, I had never heard of one consuming an entire wildebeest in such a fashion.

The tower of fat bucked and trembled as it fought to discharge the rest of the wildebeest, but its victim's curved horns were lodged in the hippo's bowels and could not be shaken free. This sent the hippo into a furious panic and it churned the water up into a seething maelstrom, splashing the revolted onlookers in filthy sewage water and clods of filth. To witness such a primeval sight was to be unwillingly plunged into a state of abject unrest, I could not help imagining it as some morbid Dali painting illustrating all that is abject, corporeal, and shameful. A contemporary comparison may point to a certain scene from Poltergeist II (1986), in which the father disgorges a ballooning mezcal worm. After a battle fraught with agonised bellows, the wildebeest's broken head finally appeared with a wet crunch, and the exhausted hippo wallowed in a bath of putrescence.

Return to No. 29

As my former readers may remember, there is a house in the southwest of Albion where I spent some formative years of my childhood, and where I was first exposed to the sinister world of the supernatural. It was (and still is) an unassuming semi-detached house in a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of a wood. I could write at great length on that place, but I will refrain on this occasion. One day, I may disclose the house's true location, but for now, let us simply call it No. 29. Like many dreams before, I made the pilgrimage there, this time with my wife, child, and dog. The house had called to me over the years, like a beacon drawing me back. Unable to resist such magnetism, I had convinced my family to settle our affairs on the southeast coast and here we were, claiming ownership of the same house that had driven me out twenty years ago.

I walked through the familiar yet unfamiliar rooms, feeling the floor creak beneath my shoes in certain areas, and considering how much a place could be changed by those living under its roof. Barely any trace of my childhood remained. Dark, unattractive wallpaper had been put up, the carpets were unrecognisable, and a slightly fusty smell betrayed the uncleanliness of the previous tenants. Nonetheless, I resolved to fix the old place up and restore it as much as possible to what I remembered. As I completed my tour upstairs, I was relieved to discover that no trace of bad energy lingered, and whatever spirits may have plagued us back then, were long gone. Or so I hoped. It was time to inspect the back garden, where many a happy summer's day had been spent.

I was greatly surprised to discover that the entire garden and patio, formerly a tiered slope, was now covered in the blue polyester of a child's paddling pool/ activity zone. It was a vintage 'Fisher Price Penguin Run', designed to act as a water playground for young children. There were water slides, a ball pit, hoop games, and inflatable penguins marching up the slopes. I was told by the estate agent accompanying us that it had been found in the loft and meticulously restored by the last occupants. My daughter's eyes lit up at such a sight, and I gave her permission to go and play. Although the use of the garden had been lost, my daughter would have her own personal soft play area, and it seemed like a good trade-off. Memories of owning this 1980s play area suddenly came back to me, and I was astonished at how well preserved it was.

Lucinda was helped into her bathing costume by her mother, and ignoring the chilly grey sky, she scrambled up the bouncy slopes, splashed in the water, and grappled with the inflatable penguins, which were almost her own height. "I know this house is a bit small and shabby compared to the one we sold," I told my wife, "but look how much fun she is having. The Penguin Run is completely childproof, and she will be able to entertain herself whenever we want a break." My wife saw the wisdom in this and used it to overcome her initial dislike of the house. I had felt uneasy about lowering the lifestyle of my family in pursuit of this spiritual, some may say reckless, need to re-inhabit my poky childhood home, but the die had been cast. I turned to the estate agent and said, "We'll take it."

Farming with Anteaters

As the dreariness of the halfhearted government 'lockdown' drags on, my dreams become more fraught with anxiety and apocalyptic calamity. I dreamed that after discovering all of my old friends had disowned me, and feeling as wretched and alone as one possibly could be, I looked up into the night sky and saw a sight both awe inspiring and terrifying. Amongst the stars was an immense series of twinkling lights, in the pattern of a snowflake, sweeping across the broad expanse of space. This turned out to be an enormous fleet of extraterrestrial crafts that was here to wipe away mankind by turning the world into a swirling vortex. But this is not the story I wish to tell, for it is too bleak even for this blog...

In a later dream that same night, I was with my friends Gaby and Matt, and we stumbled into the back garden of a Wyvernhorn academic. As is to be expected from such tenants, the garden was in something of a sorry state. Sitting down in the overgrown grass, I had ample time to look about me. A long window communicated into the dwelling's kitchen-dining area and I observed copious amounts of marijuana sitting on the windowsill, along with an assortment of potted plants covered in brown paper. It looked as though they had not been watered in a very long time. What most caught my attention, however, were the two curious animals bumbling around in the garden.

They were giant anteaters (Myrmecophaga tridactyla), or 'sworders' as I used to call them as a child, going about their instinctive drive to collect as many ants as possible. The garden was in fact an 'ant farm', and some tents housing interested merchants had been erected so as to check that daily ant quotas were being met. I wondered how they stopped the anteaters from eating them all, and how many the animals needed to consume for themselves to continue functioning. (Some quick research indicates 30,000 ants or termites.) Perhaps it was similar to Chinese cormorant fishing, where a string tied around the birds' necks prevent them from swallowing any fish. The poncho-clad merchants got up from their easy chairs and left for lunch, leaving my friends and I alone with the animals.

As soon as the ant merchants were gone, the anteaters came sniffing over to where we sat and began prodding us with their snouts. I told my friends not to be concerned, for they were mostly benign, peaceable creatures that only attacked if harassed. We tried to ignore then, but it was like the saddle-billed storks all over again, and the prodding continued. When asked if they could harm us, I admitted that they could open us up like sandwiches with their long fore claws if they chose to. There are only three cases in recent history of giant anteaters killing humans, but even so, we decided it would be best to leave. The secrets of the Wyvernhorn ant farm would have to remain hidden for now.