We all dream. The difference is that we don’t all remember our dreams. I’m sure I don’t remember all of my dreams but some stick in my mind. More often than not though, I’ll wake up clearly remembering the dream but an hour later I’ll have completely forgotten what it’s about. I guess that’s what I’ll be like if I live long enough to go dotery – my memory will desert me and I’ll keep calling people “Phil” or “Allison” (that’s what all the dotery people I’ve known do). But back to my main point. Dreams.

Like most people I tend to have more vivid and, usually, puzzling dreams when I’ve got a lot on my mind. And in the past few weeks I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m buying a house, a lavishly expensive car, my girlfriend is selling her house, I’m missing my mother, I’ve just had a throat infection (and I’m not entirely sure I’ve gotten rid of it), I’m counting the days until my two week summer holiday in Antigua (about 68) and my eyes are playing up again (meaning I’m back to wearing my glasses at work for part of the day). There are a couple of other things but they’re not getting mentioned here! So I’m not entirely surprised that I’ve started having some truly bizarre dreams.

The odd thing is that the dreams aren’t of the ilk where I’m walking down the street and suddenly I start talking to a pink flamingo who has an Australian accent and suggests that maybe I need to put my umbrella up because the kitchen sink is about to move to Italy for the summer. No, these dreams actually make sense. They make so much sense that I could be watching a film. They have a beginning, a middle, a dramatic plot twist, and an ending. I’ll give you an example.

A couple of nights ago I found myself the target of a super-villain. He kidnapped my family and blackmailed me to steal some money for him. I stole the money but decided I was going to get my revenge on him. When I handed over the money I was directed to where my family were. They were in a house in a remote area. I went to the house, only to discover that it was underwater and there was no sign of my family (all right, I’ll admit that the house being submerged is a bit far fetched, but stick with me). I’d been double crossed. Or at least cheated. I vowed to track the bad guy down and eventually sneaked into his mountain-top fortress (as all super-villains have). I found my family and dragged them out. As we hiked down the mountain I heard a bang behind me – the sound of the fortress exploding (I’m assuming I planted a bomb there). Then I woke up.

As I came to I was puzzled as to how I could have such a vivid and, above all, logically ordered dream. I normally have dreams that consist of many short scenes that make no sense at all and change after a few minutes to another short scene that makes even less sense. But to dream an actual story in multiple locations is not normal for me.

I try not to read too much into dreams but I’ve been comforted by them in the past and they’ve helped me make decisions before. So maybe on this occasion my mind is trying to hint something to me. And I suspect I know what it is. I think I need to write a story. Not a short story, but a long one. I’ve always had a furtive imagination and have often thought that one day I’d like to write a novel. I don’t care if nobody ever reads it, but threading a story together and putting it down on [electronic] paper has always intrigued me. Could I do it? Would it be any good? Would I get like Douglas Adams and obsess over every word?

All I need is the inspiration. An idea. If I know me it’ll just pop into my head one day while I’m walking down the street. I just hope I remember to write it down or I’ll forget it, because I might be going dotery by the time it comes (if I’m not going dotery already).