The Oxford Street dream again last night.
I’m stood about a hundred yards down from Oxford Circus – wearing only my dressing gown – when suddenly there’s this terrifying roar. It’s not an animal sound, but ‘roar’ is still the only word I can think of that really covers it. It’s a noise that seems to rumble its way from beneath the ground, shuddering the pavement and all the store fronts with a dreadful combination of an explosion and a growl. Then there’s a huge gust of wind, all the air being sucked away from us. More than that, it’s like all gravity has been pulled away. Myself and everyone else is hoisted from our feet, before being dropped roughly back to the ground.
My elbows smash into the asphalt as I land, but I try to gather my wits together quickly. Staggering to my feet I look around and see the bloke who’s my companion in this dream every single time. A man on crutches who has been hobbling up Oxford Street with a bright orange cast around his leg. Now he lies sprawled and screaming on the road. I charge towards him, wanting to speak to him, to find out what he has to say. Perhaps I want to see whether we have this dream together, if he is similarly conscious of having the same vision again and again.
On stumbling legs and a still shaking pavement, I make my way towards him. But just when I’m close enough to open my mouth, another roar comes – louder and more dreadful than the first – and it’s as if we’ve both vanished from existence.
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