Tortured

Night after night I have the same contorted dream about houses. I'm not talking about the pretty estate agents details on Rightmove but a horrible assortment of nightmarishly mish-mash places that I have bought, or rented, or been forced to move into by circumstances. I'm always being positive - "No, the nine of us strangers can easily fit in this tiny space", while I look around the cluttered interiors of tiny rooms and wonder how on earth I came to be here. Sometimes the neighbours have right of way through my living room, or there are no walls between me and next door. Often I'm one of a group occupying only communal spaces, nothing private. They are always dark and poky, the last place on earth I would buy, or bright and noisy and busy. But worst of all, far worse than the distorted insides are the gardens which are never attached to the house even though they were when I first went to see them. "Your garden, the one with the view of the river/sea/beautiful countryside is now further along the road, and what was your garden is now owned by the people next door who have built a 3-storey house on it." When I go and find my new space there is no view there either. My brain boils with dismay and horror and disbelief. Even in the dreams I know I've been here before but I can never stop the farce. Jungian theory tells you that the house represents your self, but what kind of tortured world exists in my unconscious mind that its mode of expression is this ghastly, tormented nightly melodrama? In the daytime I feel calm and peaceful, but once I'm asleep this bleak, confusing underworld fills my thoughts and I'm forced to act out in Groundhog repetition the distressing palaver all over again. I'll probably never know why.

Usually I manage to shake off the residue of unease once I'm awake, but with a head that's been scraped out with a serrated penknife I'm not exactly brimming with alternative ideas. The farmer is fertilising the field behind us, so I took Hugo across the lane and behind Sarah's house for his morning ablutions. I let him off the lead for a bit, but hastily put him back on when I remembered her precious cats, and how awful if they had the same fate as his hare and rabbits. He performed quickly, and together we ambled back along the lane to the house, huge weights attached to my legs making it difficult to get any pace. It's lovely out there again, perfect gardening weather. I reckon if I'd had this week as expected I could have cut back all the dead and dying things in the front and restored it to its former glory. Instead I have to look at it, and bide my time. It's not all doom and gloom. I'm going to imagine I'm a whippet, so already I've been awake for far too long. I'll curl up with my book and let sleep take me as it chooses, though no more dreams please. I've had enough for one day.