Let me tell you about last night’s dream:
So, Mat, Dan, Phil, and I were in north London late at night. You don’t know Mat, Dan, or Phil (or me for that matter) so insert this picture of four stock people into your innner head story picture instead.
There we were. It was a quarter to ten in the evening and I happened to ask Dan what time the last train back to Portsmouth was. He replied that it was at a quarter to eleven, one whole hour away. In the future! “Ah,” I said. “We need to be in south London in one hour. Let’s run!”
I think I could tell I was in a dream at this point. I don’t run. Like: ever.
We ran. We ran like the wind! The wind in question was a gentle breeze. What I’m saying here is that we more accurately ambled or jogged. It’s probably safer in London. Yes, even the London in your mind.
As is the way with dreamy dreams, things took a turn for the inconsistent here as Mat, I, and my wife (I don’t know where she’d come from or what she’d done with Dan and Phil) found ourselves in the lower part of a tower block. We jumped in the elevator. We ascended. It was a swift journey and we reached our destination on the thirty-somethingth floor in seconds. Out we stepped into a small, comfortable office-cum-waiting room with some soft sofas surrounding a low coffee table adorned with magazines.
Sitting there were Gia Milinovich and her husband Brian Cox.
Naturally. I whipped out my – don’t panic! It’s not one of those dreams! – camera and started taking pictures of the two of them. Naturally. They ignored me. Naturally.
It came to pass that Gia, Brian, Mat, my wife, and I went up onto the roof of the tower block. We gazed upon an apocalyptic world. Picture London in ruins, blackened, smoldering, lit nicely with a sombre red glow, and within the confines of an immense cavern.
Still, everyone was happy, particularly the various actors and actresses who were milling about on this set. Oh yes, for it was now a post-apocalypse set and the tower block had gone as tower blocks are prone to do in these situations.
I sat at a little table overlooking what could best be described as a pit of actors; hundreds of the buggers wandering around, laughing, talking, trying to look Apocalypse Suave. At this point those with whom I’d arrived in Dreamy Disaster London had vanished; it was just me and my camera.
Snapping away, I attracted the attention of the acting globular cluster who promptly started posing for shots and ruining the shots of everyone else. Just how I imagine red carpet events to be. I was distracted by a tap on my shoulder as Matt Damon – who was seated at my table with his wife – asked about the camera. I was in my element!
“Canon 5D Mark II,” I told him, before rattling on and on about its specifications. He seemed interested. What a nice man that Matt Damon is. I showed him the movie capabilities of the camera by taking some footage of George Clooney – who else!? – who was seated opposite me. He goofed around a bit.
I put the camera down and relaxed for a while chatting with Matt and George (I’m such a namedropper!) until I felt a shadow pass over me. Looking up from my reclined position in the chair I saw the quite nice and quite intimidating Melissa Joan Hart gazing back down. She was wearing white in my dream which really didn’t flatter her but I didn’t want to say anything, especially after what happened next. After expressing a passing interest in the photos I’d taken she proceeded to put the thumb and forefinger of each of her hands onto my armpits, whereupon she flicked and pinched me in a completely casual but excruciating manner. All the time she did this she was saying that the pictures were really good. But the flicking and pinching carried on and it really, really hurt.
However, I am a gentleman so I didn’t punch her and tried to distract her from her actions by talking to Matt Damon some more. “If you’re ever after a pincher,” I told him, “then Melissa Joan Hart is the woman you need!” He laughed, she laughed, I laughed to cover up the pain.
Melissa left and I glanced at Matt with a glance that said “What in the name of holy hell was all that about?”
“I think she likes you!” said Matt. And I woke up.
Dreams do not foretell events to come. Dreams do not convey messages from beyond. Dreams are electrical impulses triggering subconscious recollections of images and sounds to be sorted into some semblance of sense by the brain. They don’t have meanings. When pixies appear in your sleeping mind it is not a sign that you’re about to win the lottery. There is no point in talking about dreams other than to be amazed at how the brain handles pattern-matching.
That said: I really think Melissa Joan Hart likes me.