Another dream last night.
This one must be new though.
I’m stood in a London park I don’t think it’s one of the royal parks, if I had to guess I would say it was Burgess Park. (Not that I’ve ever been there more than once in my life). I’m stood in a crowd. Well I say a crowd but that implies that we’re all jammed in tight together, it’s more a loose gathering of people – just staring towards a distant stage. The stage seems miles away, and yet even over thousands of heads I can see it clearly.
With me is a girl. Shamefully I’m unable to remember (or maybe I couldn’t tell at the time) whether it’s Alison or Julie. Or maybe it’s neither of them. Maybe it’s just a girl, perhaps it doesn’t matter.
The two of us are staring at the stage and on it appears Elvina. She looks fabulous, magnificent – much better than I’ve ever seen her in Clerkenwell. She seems to have even bigger breasts, a tinier waist, longer legs – in short, the sheer embodiment of sex.
And yet, unlike Clerkenwell, she isn’t greeted with whoops and hollers. Despite all the thousands (tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands) of people there, at least half of them of men, she appears on stage to utter silence.
Seemingly undaunted though, she leans slightly back once and then – rather than sing – hollers into the distance. It’s a horrible sound, a deathly sound, one you would think no human larynx is capable of.
Now the audience responds, now everyone turns their heads to see what she’s looking at.
In the distance, over The City, arises a bright red mushroom cloud.
It’s the last thing any of us ever see.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
February the 6th, 2012
So what am I scared of?
Well what I see in my dreams terrifies me and lingers in my mind throughout the days. Now the fact that Alison is out there somewhere, doing god knows what, is something else I find completely disturbing. And I suppose the fact that my life is really not going anywhere, must also be a point of fear.
Only the last one though, will my therapist take seriously.
I told her about the Alison phone call and even though she didn’t say anything, I could tell from the slight raising of her eyebrow (she has a very expressive face, and I sometimes wonder how conscious she is of it) that she didn’t completely believe me. Swiftly she ascertained that it was late at night, that I’d been drinking and from there I think she just assumed it was an hallucination. I told her that I could remember it clearly, but I failed to convince. In that soft, almost patronising voice she has, she told me that I had to try and look at things calmly and rationally.
To that end she asked me what I wanted from my life – the things I wanted to achieve, what goals I had. I’d gone in there to talk about Alison, about Julie even, but ended up having a long conversation about things that I normally keep at the back of my mind. This meant there was much mumbling and stumbling as I tried to work out what my goals might be, and more raising of eyebrows from her.
My homework (fucking homework again!) this week is to work out targets for my life that I can easily achieve this year.
I’m starting to wonder why I go to see her.
Well what I see in my dreams terrifies me and lingers in my mind throughout the days. Now the fact that Alison is out there somewhere, doing god knows what, is something else I find completely disturbing. And I suppose the fact that my life is really not going anywhere, must also be a point of fear.
Only the last one though, will my therapist take seriously.
I told her about the Alison phone call and even though she didn’t say anything, I could tell from the slight raising of her eyebrow (she has a very expressive face, and I sometimes wonder how conscious she is of it) that she didn’t completely believe me. Swiftly she ascertained that it was late at night, that I’d been drinking and from there I think she just assumed it was an hallucination. I told her that I could remember it clearly, but I failed to convince. In that soft, almost patronising voice she has, she told me that I had to try and look at things calmly and rationally.
To that end she asked me what I wanted from my life – the things I wanted to achieve, what goals I had. I’d gone in there to talk about Alison, about Julie even, but ended up having a long conversation about things that I normally keep at the back of my mind. This meant there was much mumbling and stumbling as I tried to work out what my goals might be, and more raising of eyebrows from her.
My homework (fucking homework again!) this week is to work out targets for my life that I can easily achieve this year.
I’m starting to wonder why I go to see her.
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Sunday 5th of February, 2012 - addendum
I've checked my phone a dozen times today, and that phonecall did come in.
But did I imagine I spoke to Alison? Did I dream it?
And if I didn't, how could she know about me and Julie?
Is she watching us somehow?
What is going on?
My head hurts today from more than just last night's booze.
But did I imagine I spoke to Alison? Did I dream it?
And if I didn't, how could she know about me and Julie?
Is she watching us somehow?
What is going on?
My head hurts today from more than just last night's booze.
Sunday 5th of February, 2012
After a week of pondering and being inside my head, it was good to have an evening out with Julie last night. Social wise my week has been nothing at all, I’ve just gone to the office of a morning and come straight home at night – hence I had too much time to sit around and brood. As such it was great to have a fun chat with someone, to have a few drinks and some flirting. It was great to know that the world isn’t just about me.
I was so eager, I even got there and early and had a pint before she arrived. And even there by myself, I did feel better. Not talking to anyone, but hearing the conversations go on around me – a mix of idle gossip and sports chat, what had just happened in the rugby and how good Arsenal were at lunch time.
There was part of me tempted to take Julie to see Elvina in Clerkenwell,, but I thought that wouldn’t be the most suitable of locations for what presumably was a date – so instead we went to The Rising Sun on Tottenham Court Road. Clearly we timed it right, as the rugby fans were already drifting out by the time we arrived.
When Julie got there, she looked great. She was wearing a short pleated skirt and a white blouse. With her glasses as well, the overall effect was naughty head-girl. She had a wine and I had a beer and we just fell straight into talking, huddled over the table and staring at each other so close.
The two of us chatted about where we from (me Wales, her Tonbridge); where we went to University (me Liverpool, her Cambridge); past relationships (she knew about my last one, I of course didn’t know about hers); siblings (one sister each); parents (all alive, still together and retired); and work (neither of us overly enamoured with what we do).
After a while we decided to go for a curry on Charlotte Street and left the pub holding hands, walking so tight together like the happiest of young couples. We sat opposite each other and she slipped her hand onto my knee even before the poppadoms arrived. I inched my hand up and stroked her thighs under her skirt. We huddled over that table, almost as if there was candlelight and we were the only two people in a beautiful French restaurant.
If I’m honest I thought I was in. After last week’s sudden kissing, I thought this week was going to be an escalation to the next level. The outfit, the way we didn’t stop touching, the look on her face. I’ve been to that restaurant before and so know how good it is, but I couldn’t tell you anything about the meal last night. All I concentrated on was her, she intoxicated me.
The instant we left her lips swooped onto mine, and we were in each other’s arms again. I was so hot for her, so desperate to have her and she must have understood that as she quickly – and sweetly – drew a line in the sand.
“Let’s do something this week,” she said. “Let’s do something nice.”
“Of course,” I said, and with that removed all thoughts of getting a taxi back to her place from my mind. That wasn’t going to happen tonight, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen.
“I really like you,” she told me. “I really, really like you – but I’m just scared that you’re on the rebound.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I promise you I wasn’t out hunting for anyone. This – between us – is just something that happened.”
She kissed me again. “Oh, I do like you. You’re really nice and considerate and funny and I really do want a boyfriend for Valentine’s day, and at the moment I want it to be you – but I just want you to be ready for that. I don’t want to be hurt,” her head nestled on my shoulder. “Are you ready for a relationship?”
“I am, Julie. Trust me, I am.”
We agreed to meet on Wednesday and then lingered over a kiss goodbye at the tube station. I skipped back to my flat last night so happy. Okay, so we hadn’t ended up in bed, but I had something going on with a fun and sexy girl who was not someone who had vanished or who I only watched through a spotlight. Earlier in the week I thought I was going to die alone, now that eventuality seemed so far away.
As I let myself in the mobile rang. I looked at the screen and it was a withheld number. For whatever reason I thought it must be Julie, calling from home perhaps.
I clicked the button with a big “Hello.”
There was a pause and then Alison’s voice said: “Hello.”
She sounded as distant as when I’d spoken to her on Katie’s phone.
“Alison? Where are you?”
That was a question she was always going to ignore. “I just want to say that it’s great you’re getting to know Julie. You were two people I really liked and I want you to know that I’m glad it’s happening.”
My mouth opened and shut before getting any words out. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a non sequitur if ever there was one. “I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me.”
And with that she was gone.
I sat there in the hallway carpet, my phone in my hand, all good feeling now replaced with bafflement.
I was so eager, I even got there and early and had a pint before she arrived. And even there by myself, I did feel better. Not talking to anyone, but hearing the conversations go on around me – a mix of idle gossip and sports chat, what had just happened in the rugby and how good Arsenal were at lunch time.
There was part of me tempted to take Julie to see Elvina in Clerkenwell,, but I thought that wouldn’t be the most suitable of locations for what presumably was a date – so instead we went to The Rising Sun on Tottenham Court Road. Clearly we timed it right, as the rugby fans were already drifting out by the time we arrived.
When Julie got there, she looked great. She was wearing a short pleated skirt and a white blouse. With her glasses as well, the overall effect was naughty head-girl. She had a wine and I had a beer and we just fell straight into talking, huddled over the table and staring at each other so close.
The two of us chatted about where we from (me Wales, her Tonbridge); where we went to University (me Liverpool, her Cambridge); past relationships (she knew about my last one, I of course didn’t know about hers); siblings (one sister each); parents (all alive, still together and retired); and work (neither of us overly enamoured with what we do).
After a while we decided to go for a curry on Charlotte Street and left the pub holding hands, walking so tight together like the happiest of young couples. We sat opposite each other and she slipped her hand onto my knee even before the poppadoms arrived. I inched my hand up and stroked her thighs under her skirt. We huddled over that table, almost as if there was candlelight and we were the only two people in a beautiful French restaurant.
If I’m honest I thought I was in. After last week’s sudden kissing, I thought this week was going to be an escalation to the next level. The outfit, the way we didn’t stop touching, the look on her face. I’ve been to that restaurant before and so know how good it is, but I couldn’t tell you anything about the meal last night. All I concentrated on was her, she intoxicated me.
The instant we left her lips swooped onto mine, and we were in each other’s arms again. I was so hot for her, so desperate to have her and she must have understood that as she quickly – and sweetly – drew a line in the sand.
“Let’s do something this week,” she said. “Let’s do something nice.”
“Of course,” I said, and with that removed all thoughts of getting a taxi back to her place from my mind. That wasn’t going to happen tonight, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen.
“I really like you,” she told me. “I really, really like you – but I’m just scared that you’re on the rebound.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I promise you I wasn’t out hunting for anyone. This – between us – is just something that happened.”
She kissed me again. “Oh, I do like you. You’re really nice and considerate and funny and I really do want a boyfriend for Valentine’s day, and at the moment I want it to be you – but I just want you to be ready for that. I don’t want to be hurt,” her head nestled on my shoulder. “Are you ready for a relationship?”
“I am, Julie. Trust me, I am.”
We agreed to meet on Wednesday and then lingered over a kiss goodbye at the tube station. I skipped back to my flat last night so happy. Okay, so we hadn’t ended up in bed, but I had something going on with a fun and sexy girl who was not someone who had vanished or who I only watched through a spotlight. Earlier in the week I thought I was going to die alone, now that eventuality seemed so far away.
As I let myself in the mobile rang. I looked at the screen and it was a withheld number. For whatever reason I thought it must be Julie, calling from home perhaps.
I clicked the button with a big “Hello.”
There was a pause and then Alison’s voice said: “Hello.”
She sounded as distant as when I’d spoken to her on Katie’s phone.
“Alison? Where are you?”
That was a question she was always going to ignore. “I just want to say that it’s great you’re getting to know Julie. You were two people I really liked and I want you to know that I’m glad it’s happening.”
My mouth opened and shut before getting any words out. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a non sequitur if ever there was one. “I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me.”
And with that she was gone.
I sat there in the hallway carpet, my phone in my hand, all good feeling now replaced with bafflement.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
February the 3rd, 2012
A new dream last night, or maybe one I’ve not had in awhile and so I didn’t remember it with any clarity.
I’m stood in my suit at The Royal Exchange in The City. It’s a beautiful day, with crisp blue skies – but it’s very cold (much like today). All I have on is my suit, no overcoat, and I’m freezing. There is something wrong, as around The Royal Exchange is freakishly quiet – there is not a single human being, there are no cars. Eerily there aren’t even the sounds of people or traffic from Leadenhall either. I am absolutely the only person there, shivering in my suit.
But then I do hear something. Off in the distance there’s a sound, it’s a fast noise, like a large wave crashing towards me. I stand there looking towards Moorgate and The London Wall, where I think the noise is coming from. It gets louder, nearer, and for a moment it sounds like there are hooves, a pack of wild horses charging towards me.
I feel like I should turn and run, but I don’t. Instead I hold my ground and stare at it. Then suddenly down Princess Street comes this swarm of people. There must be thousands of them. They are running in my direction, but I’m not sure they’re running at me, it might be that they’re fleeing something and I just find myself stood in the way.
Panic courses through me, but I still don’t move. There are thousands of them – people of all sizes, races, ages – and they are charging straight at me. I try to look at the expressions on their faces, to see whether they are fearful or angry. To find out whether this is the rage in society made real and turned into an unstoppable force. But their expressions are impossible to read – a combination of fear and fury, that seems to be both while being neither.
I know I should move, run away – but I don’t. Instead when the fastest ones – a big guy, and this wild eyed, middle aged lady – are only a foot or so away from me, I drop to a ball on the cold pavement. And suddenly on top of me are all these people and I can’t breathe.
What does this mean I’m scared of?
I’m stood in my suit at The Royal Exchange in The City. It’s a beautiful day, with crisp blue skies – but it’s very cold (much like today). All I have on is my suit, no overcoat, and I’m freezing. There is something wrong, as around The Royal Exchange is freakishly quiet – there is not a single human being, there are no cars. Eerily there aren’t even the sounds of people or traffic from Leadenhall either. I am absolutely the only person there, shivering in my suit.
But then I do hear something. Off in the distance there’s a sound, it’s a fast noise, like a large wave crashing towards me. I stand there looking towards Moorgate and The London Wall, where I think the noise is coming from. It gets louder, nearer, and for a moment it sounds like there are hooves, a pack of wild horses charging towards me.
I feel like I should turn and run, but I don’t. Instead I hold my ground and stare at it. Then suddenly down Princess Street comes this swarm of people. There must be thousands of them. They are running in my direction, but I’m not sure they’re running at me, it might be that they’re fleeing something and I just find myself stood in the way.
Panic courses through me, but I still don’t move. There are thousands of them – people of all sizes, races, ages – and they are charging straight at me. I try to look at the expressions on their faces, to see whether they are fearful or angry. To find out whether this is the rage in society made real and turned into an unstoppable force. But their expressions are impossible to read – a combination of fear and fury, that seems to be both while being neither.
I know I should move, run away – but I don’t. Instead when the fastest ones – a big guy, and this wild eyed, middle aged lady – are only a foot or so away from me, I drop to a ball on the cold pavement. And suddenly on top of me are all these people and I can’t breathe.
What does this mean I’m scared of?
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Februay the 1st, 2012
Or is it that everyone is now so angry? Everyone is now so fearful?
Look at what’s happening with the bankers. Not that I’m going to sit here and defend Fred Goodwin, but the public mood isn’t one of disapproval, it appears to be more akin to rage. The same thing happened in the football over the weekend. Yes racism is an incredibly serious issue that shouldn’t really be dealt with through the prism of club rivalry, but for it to be so viscerally vitriolic was just incredible. There just seems to be so much anger, so much sheer fury, everywhere right now.
Why is that? A sense of helplessness at the way the world has gone, or is a fear as to what is coming? Is there a sixth sense that everybody is feeling – and because most people can’t understand it – anger is the only emotion that can be expressed?
Is it possible that I’m not the only one who suffers a form of these dreams? Are thousand – if not millions – of people enduring them, or something like them? Are we all so angry and scared because we appreciate at a certain level that is something wrong, and it’s coming fast towards us?
Look at what’s happening with the bankers. Not that I’m going to sit here and defend Fred Goodwin, but the public mood isn’t one of disapproval, it appears to be more akin to rage. The same thing happened in the football over the weekend. Yes racism is an incredibly serious issue that shouldn’t really be dealt with through the prism of club rivalry, but for it to be so viscerally vitriolic was just incredible. There just seems to be so much anger, so much sheer fury, everywhere right now.
Why is that? A sense of helplessness at the way the world has gone, or is a fear as to what is coming? Is there a sixth sense that everybody is feeling – and because most people can’t understand it – anger is the only emotion that can be expressed?
Is it possible that I’m not the only one who suffers a form of these dreams? Are thousand – if not millions – of people enduring them, or something like them? Are we all so angry and scared because we appreciate at a certain level that is something wrong, and it’s coming fast towards us?
Tuesday, 31st of January
So what, if anything, am I scared of?
Well I guess I’m a now a thirty-seven year old single man, with no real ties anywhere and so there must be a certain fear of dying alone. I do look at those people of my generation with the happy home and the happy spouse and the happy kids, and wonder what’s the matter with me that I haven’t taken that route? And does the fact I’ve missed so many signs to head down that road mean I don’t really want it? After all there's never been a point in my life where I felt the desperate need to have a church wedding and some little ‘uns. It’s always been something for the future, something I could consider for far away and not worry about now. But is there a fear, as I get older, that that far away may never come.
What else could it be? Well I guess the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life’s time writing (to the detriment of my career and, let’s be honest, my personal life) probably gives me the fear that none of it was worthwhile. That I am destined to be your failed novelist, buried in a pauper’s grave and not really remembered even by the people who met me.
But would these personal fears really be enough for my imagination to end the world for me each and every night? Surely I would dream about those problems in my life; not something larger, more spectacular and involving so many other people.
Well I guess I’m a now a thirty-seven year old single man, with no real ties anywhere and so there must be a certain fear of dying alone. I do look at those people of my generation with the happy home and the happy spouse and the happy kids, and wonder what’s the matter with me that I haven’t taken that route? And does the fact I’ve missed so many signs to head down that road mean I don’t really want it? After all there's never been a point in my life where I felt the desperate need to have a church wedding and some little ‘uns. It’s always been something for the future, something I could consider for far away and not worry about now. But is there a fear, as I get older, that that far away may never come.
What else could it be? Well I guess the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life’s time writing (to the detriment of my career and, let’s be honest, my personal life) probably gives me the fear that none of it was worthwhile. That I am destined to be your failed novelist, buried in a pauper’s grave and not really remembered even by the people who met me.
But would these personal fears really be enough for my imagination to end the world for me each and every night? Surely I would dream about those problems in my life; not something larger, more spectacular and involving so many other people.
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