Writing for Fun
August 2021
House Of My Dreams - Pete Norman
It really is beautiful. It is everything I could ever have wished for. It is compact but perfectly large enough for all my needs. It is old – and a little, shall we say, bucolic? – but it is staggeringly beautiful. It is indeed the house of my dreams . . . or perhaps the bungalow . . . or maybe even the cottage . . . I am afraid I simply cannot remember.
It is impossible to justify an obsession, especially when you can not put forward any direct evidence whatsoever to support your argument. You see this truly is the house of my dreams – and I mean that quite literally.
I can impose no influence over my subconscious mind to generate less of the nasty, painful and frightening ones and more of the pleasurable dreams. However, my hippocampus has – for the time being anyway – settled upon this one as it’s favourite, which it replays on a continuous loop, night after night. Morning after morning I awake with such a warm and comfortable glow that screams out a desperate need to slip back into the arms of Morpheus, to re-immerse myself in the sanctity of . . . of . . .
However, the cold logical reality is that the only reason my body drags me back into this conscious state is because of the need to use the bathroom and, by the time my comatose brain has finished working that one out, the dream has evaporated, like a will-o’-the-wisp, leaving nothing, nothing at all except an intense feeling of loss and frustration.
I have spent many hours on the Internet intensively researching the secrets of dreams and it is suggested that the main difficulty is that the processes that create long-term memories lie dormant while we sleep, which is the reason why most dreams are forgotten shortly after waking.
Of course, as always, there are tried and tested (?) means of improving your chances.
I now go to bed at exactly the same time each night.
I try to lie in a semi-meditative state for 20 minutes before I go to sleep.
I bang my head on the pillow three times each night to remind the brain that it has something important to remember.
I leave a notebook and pen on the bedside table so that on waking I can scribble something quickly to jog my memory.
So, do any of these things work? No, non, nein, niet! . . . it is all a complete and utter waste of time.
All that I have ever managed to salvage from the dream is that the – shall we call it a cottage, for want of simplicity? – the cottage is stunningly beautiful and that it is for sale and . . . and I desperately want it!
* * *
The cottage is stunningly beautiful.
I am standing in a heavily wooded lane, peering over the gate – a large and organic gate supported between two enormous stone columns. Set into the yellow stonework of the cottage are round Hobbit-like lead-light windows. The dark brown thatch oozes down the roof like brandy custard on a Christmas pudding. Smoke is drifting out of the twin chimneys creating a warm and homely feeling. The garden is, unsurprisingly, a typical cottage garden with fragrant rose bushes of every variety and colour and, rambling randomly across the wall, is a massive ancient Wisteria. The modern ‘For Sale’ sign appears completely alien in comparison.
I walk through the gate and past the house into the back garden, a vast area set aside for a further abundance of colourful roses, a vegetable patch so enormous that I could almost kiss the supermarkets goodbye and there is even a little space set aside for comfortable seating and a cold beer on a warm evening.
The cottage is stunningly beautiful.
I reach for my mobile phone but there is no signal. I snort in frustration. Time is of the essence. This beautiful cottage will not stay on the market for very long . . .
The sky darkens. The mist rolls in. The cottage gradually fades into the wall of greyness . . .
It is happening again . . . I scream out, ‘Noooooo!’ . . . I tear open my eyes and above me is the bedroom lampshade that I have been planning to replace for many years.
My bladder is reminding me of a certain urgency. As I slip out of the warm bed my eyes catch sight of the notepad and pen on the bedside table. My brain struggles to comprehend its purpose . . . but a dim distant memory slowly drifts upwards and my hand grasps the pen in shaking fingers and I write down a word – a single word . . .
. . . the name of the Estate Agent on the ‘For Sale’ sign.