Across the pond

In the dream I am hurrying to a West End theatre to see a Shakespeare play which is probably, Much Ado About Nothing. I am late. The usherette, a striking brunette who resembles the new girl friend of my wife’s cousin, whom I met for the first time on Sunday, tells me  I shall have to stand at the back until the first interval. But once inside I join a group of middle aged men who are sitting on the steps talking amongst themselves in rather loud voices with public school accents.

 They are also watching the action, taking place on the stage a long way below – we must be in the gallery. The actors are too far away for me to hear more than a few words of what they saying. But I hear enough of them to know that the words they are speaking are not those of the Shakespeare play. And they are all in modern dress. What I am watching must be the creation of a contemporary playwright who has been inspired to write something of his own, loosely adapted from the original.

 Within a few minutes the first interval arrives and I head for the bar. In the corridor I go through a doorway leading to a white spiral staircase. It is unlike any staircase I have seen. On either side there tooth like pillars of irregular height, vaguely reminiscent of the fangs of a tiger.  It is narrow, too narrow for people coming up to pass people going down. It seems to go on endlessly, and I have no wish to climb them all on the way back. I want out. But the youths also walking down tell me there is no exit until the bottom, which we reach eventually.

 The staircase ends, not in the street, buton what must be the river bed. It seems much bigger than the actual Thames river bed, more like the seashore. All I can see in front of me is sand and water. No sign of the opposite bank. There is a light mist which adds to the beauty of the scene, which might have been painted by Turner. The tide is coming in and as I walk along the shore I have to step around rivulets of water.

 Soon I meet up with middle aged men from the balcony, still talking to each other in loud voices. But happy to help me. I am trying to light a cigarette, but both of the two lighters I have with are refusing to ignite.  Three of them offer their lighters. After the first so satisfying inhalation, I wake up and discover I am in our London flat, looking out on a white winter wonderland.

 The snow is back and my guess is there has been a fall of about two inches during the night.

 That is all I remember. But my belief is that the unconscious mind is telling us stories and painting pictures for us during the night, and that what I am remembering is part of much bigger construction. Whether or not the unconscious is sending me messages with important meanings I am not sure. But what I do know is that my free night-time film is sometimes much more entertaining than much on offer by the one hundred odd channels on my television set.