Eyes Wide Shut

So there was me and Terry Gilliam the film director having a really nice chat about stuff. He was much nicer than I expected him to be. He also looked a lot more like Oliver Stone than I thought he would, although he was banging on about how computer animation was killing comedy films. (He had a real thing about that new cartoon Cars.) But he was really nice, although his dressing gown was a bit short.
And he was smoking a cigar. We were in the bedroom I used to have on the ground floor of my mother's house in South London.

And we went to bed (separately), and I was thinking about how the air smells differently after it rains and wondering if I was half Cherokee or something because I could smell the weather. But it turned out Terry had dropped his cigar into a bin in the garden which had gone up in flames, and we had to get out to the garden to save my mother's dog who was pretty smoked out but still alive by the time we got to him.

And then I was watching a rugby match on TV in anticipation of playing that afternoon for a team I had played for years ago who really wanted me to play again despite my protestations that I was not fit enough for a whole game. And then we went into this large dining hall that was in an Oxford College or Hogworts or something. And the waiters kept on bringing us really tasty left overs from the top table and saying we would not have to pay for them. Terry wouldn't join us to eat and just sat in a corner saying he was too tired and needed to sleep. After lunch I lit a cigarette but Shirley Williams aka Dame Williams of Crosby got really annoyed with me for smoking, and my old boss joined in and asked me to leave.

So I went to get changed for the rugby match but kind of knew that I didn't have my boots, and so I went to a shop on the grounds of the school we were playing against, but they only had a really really expensive pair that I couldn't afford. So I went to try and find the pitch we were playing on, and these two blokes offered to show me a short cut because I was running late, and I had to help them get down a wall swinging on planks of wood that kept on falling down to the bottom of the wall. On the way down I had to push a cat off a ledge, and it was really pissed off that I had disturbed it. And there were really intense shards of broken glass all the way down the wall.

When we eventually got down to the bottom of the wall, it turned out I was still in the wrong place and had already missed kick off. So I walked down this high street where there was a great charcuterie where I was given lots of bits of smoked chicken and pie and stuff. So I ate all this food, and then went wandering along the high street to another charcuterie but the food looked really old. There were all these trussed up cooked poussin that looked really grey and nasty. And I was thinking I should not eat so much before I played rugby, and wondering if I could play in the trainers I was wearing because it was not as muddy as I had thought it was going to be. I figured that I would make the second half at least. I kept on thinking everything would be okay if my team were winning, but how annoyed with me they would be if they were losing. And then I woke up.

Writing about dreams is kind of illegal I know, but the only other thing I had going this morning was an A to Z of information I don't need, or my thoughts on different colours.

But for any of you dream readers out there: the lack of boots thing is a recurring motif in my dreams. It's based on me (in awake world) having massive feet and never being able to find the right shoes or clothes to wear. The cigars and the cigarettes is because I stopped smoking a while ago. Terry Gilliam? No idea. Shirley Williams? She turns up in my dreams quite a lot because I met her about four hours after I finished my finals at university and for a while I had a funny photo of me and her that someone took that day. The charcuterie stuff is - I guess - because I lived in Brussels for a while and I am greedy. The nasty charcuterie food is - I guess - because I feel guilty about being greedy. My mother's dog? I just miss him. I can smell the weather though.

(If this is your first time reading househusbandnot, it is not usually about vague homoerotica and pies. Honest.)