Dreams are strange. Like a drunk projectionist staggering round your brain, you never know what's going to be shown on those juddering spools.
Unless, of course, it's a recurring dream that's topping the cranial bill.
I'd love to dream about running toy stalls or Thunderbirds or my Grandchildren.
But the projectionist has other ideas. My top billing is always the same. My old job.
I worked for a urban charity for 20 years, working my way slowly up to the position of deputy dog. I enjoyed the first - sort of - 15 years but the final 5 were horrendous. Stress Central and then some. I hated it and dreaded every single day. My health suffered and couldn't wait to get out, which I did in 2005, thank God!
You would have thought that nearly twenty years later I would have got it out of my system. Dreamt it out like sweat.
But no, my dreams, the ones I remember, are most often back there, with me facing the same interminable problems I faced in reality: my beleaguered team, the pompous Board, a skeptical City Hall, ambitious colleagues, ailing funds, headstrong personalities, bitter rivalries, major cock-ups and abject failures.
Usually, at some point, after the palpable tension peaks, I get sacked or walk out and the night's dose is thankfully over.
As I say, I'd love to dream about nice stuff. I've been running this blog for nearly as long but never dream about it. It's obviously too nice!
C'mon Thunderbirds! I need my dreams rescuing! Send in the Mole!
A new dream for a new year!
Do you dream readers? Are any recurring?
