– Best Self: I think I’m going to have a boyfriend again.
– Worst self: Um, terrible idea.
– Best self: Why?
– Worst Self: You might die.
– Best self: I’m hardly going to die.
– Worst self: You were so miserable last time, remember.
– Best self: Only because he was the wrong man for me. Another man – the right one – will make me happy. Or keep me happy, because I’m already happy.
– Worst self: Sounds horrifically claustrophobic to me. You’d be locked in to being whoever you are when you meet him. Won’t be able to change or develop. Sounds hellish, actually. That panic in your throat right now; you know you’d hate it.
– Best self: Not true. He might be someone who is interested in learning and self development and who I can have interesting conversations with. In fact he almost certainly will be, otherwise I won’t be attracted to him in the first place.
– Worst self: You’d have to meet his family. Continue reading
Only the third was a lucid conversation; the rest were dreaming-while-awakes.
- I’ve created the base of a helicopter. It’s a smooth, shining, navy blue body. No hard edges, utter grace. My hand runs over its contours; can’t believe I’ve made this! Had no idea I was going to do this. I’ve literally made a helicopter on a whim. Then the propeller: I’d forgotten completely that it would have a propeller. What a bonus! A propeller arrives from nowhere (maybe heaven), drifts down to it and settles perfectly onto the top, and the whole thing lifts and flies away. Beautiful.
- There are millimetres in my house. I tell them to come outside. They hate each other, so instead of pouring out together, as though from a jug, they each thunder down the stairs into the front garden, stubborn and furious. Drops of water with legs and scowling faces, they stand there in a line, obedient and cross, with folded arms.
- My little doggiewoggie, poorly and normally a difficult eater, has eaten 3 portions of chicken-and-rice-for-Luna before 2.30pm. We are all very impressed. Telling her she is a little darling, I say ‘my little piglet, you’re going to turn into a chicken,’ then: ‘Don’t worry though, I’d still love you. I’d still carry you about and call you my little-darling-Lulu.’ It would be a new lease of life; a whole new animal’s lifetime she can stick around for. I picture her with amber feathers nestled in the cradle of my arms.