Dream a dream

Two days ago a friend at the office told me of how he’d recently escaped being eaten by a crocodile while on holiday, and how he’d suffered nightmares for three nights afterwards. I told him that I don’t dream any more; I have no dreams, no inner life while asleep, perhaps no hope or interest in a different future, no subconscious whispers of triumph or disaster.

So of course this morning I had a bad dream.

I woke up, clearly remembering how vivid it had been, and unpleasant, and then promptly forgot it entirely, which was a blessing for my wife as I couldn’t share it with her. Fortunately it wasn’t the sort of nightmare to make you thrash about, otherwise our daughter, sleeping placidly between us, might have been upset.

Drinking coffee in the office, it all came back to me. I’d dreamed a horror movie, fairly high production values, where a haunted suitcase is delivered to a young family, and then terrible things happen. I seem to remember demonically possessed jeans.

That sounds like something hilariously camp, but it wasn’t at all pleasant. I don’t know if it was a consequence of talking about nightmares, and talking to another colleague about how best to clean my luggage, although it did seem to be my suitcase. We haven’t watched a scary movie for ages (I’m trying to get my wife to watch The Orphanage in the original Spanish with me, to improve our language skills, but as yet, no such luck) although I have started reading Declare to my family.

The scene I remember most from the dream there’s a early thirtysomething woman, probably four or five months pregnant, wearing a tight black dress and talking to her friend and her husband, when a demon or a poltergeist or such throws her against a window frame. She holds on for a few moments, the force relents, and then as her grip telaxes she’s thrown straight out of the window and to the ground, five stories below. And then I had to watch this scene several more times. So no more going near the windows of my flat for me. At least not when I’m pregnant.

I wonder if this film exists somewhere, or if it’s not terrifying but just a slapdash attempt to satirise the TSA, the people who retrieve your lost luggage for you at airports, or the manufacturers of suitcases, jeans and maternity wear.

At least now I know I still have dreams.

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