This Is Not A
Where In My Head...?
I came home on the bus. The driver had the radio on, and the voice seemed to be announcing the death of someone important. Unfortunately, the volume was too low (or the engine too loud) for me to hear anything coherent other than the remark that the dead person's mother was a Roman Catholic. I realised that I had not been keeping up with the news that day, and wondered who had died.
I got home to find that someone had left my front gate open, and my front garden was full of rubbish of various sorts. I saw a white soft toy (possibly a rabbit) over by the hedge.
Sighing with annoyance at other people's anti-social habits, I walked up the path at the side of the house. As I turned the corner, I saw that on my back garden were two or three of those wooden pallets that bakers use. On each was what looked like a roast chicken, although they seemed rather large for this. One of the roasts was being gnawed at by what looked, at first sight, to be a rather large domestic cat.
The 'cat' got up and, shaking and trembling with some sort of ague, walked towards me. It was then that I saw from its gait and its mottled face that it was, in fact, a hyena. It came up to me and I put my hand out to it. It suddenly shied away, leapt across the side garden and forced its way through the hedge.
Baffled, I went back to the front of the house. There, on the corner, was a satchel of some sort. The flap was open, and it had a label on it which said Condé. The satchel had some papers in it, and I went to take it inside for safe keeping.
As I turned around I saw that, in addition to the rabbit, there was now a small, brown teddy bear in the middle of the lawn.
Shaking somewhat, I turned to go through the front door (as the skies were looking ominously stormy) and resolved to phone my mother to ask her if I had lost my mind.
Walking through the house towards the back door, it suddenly went very dark outside and I could now hear the sound of heavy rain. Sure enough, I opened the back door (the key having presented itself to me on the end of the ring it hangs from on the kitchen wall) to see a charcoal sky and a downpour.
As I locked the door again, I turned to see a woman standing by the cooker, having just removed from the oven a baking tray with tiny, round biscuits on it. I didn't recognise her: she was a little shorter than me, and had short, straight black hair. She remarked that the world had become a bizarre place. I could only concur.
It was at this point that I woke up.
I don't want any of this analysing, please. I once recounted to a colleague a dream I'd had about seeing an airliner break up in flight, and was gleefully told that it meant that I had doubts about my potency. I can do without that.