Do you dream, or are you like the farmer who says he never dreams? I tell him everyone dreams but not everyone remembers them.
I have the most fanciful dreams, as though my brain is trying to sort out some of the rubbish I think about during the day. I have a bit of a butterfly mind and do tend to flit from subject to subject given half a chance.
But last night I had such an interesting dream. Interesting from the point of view that it seemed to draw its source from everything that had happened to me over the last few days , mix them up and serve them up in the form of a precis of events.
Last week at writers' group I was talking to D, one of our members, about selling her house and how unsettling it was; then I read a poem a few days later by Ted Hughes, called 'May Day on Holderness'; I have been watching Antiques Road Trip on BBC2 at tea-time each night this week; I am reading a book on Italian Cookery.
Last night I dreamt that I was looking for a house to buy and lit upon the one owned by D. The front of the house was in Richmond, where she lives, and was stocked with priceless antiques, all of which were for sale. The back, however, looked out over the Humber Estuary - in fact it was so close that the water was lapping at the end of the garden and round the wheels of one of the farmer's tractors. To cap it all, D invited me to stay for a meal and served up a delicious dish of Italian pasta.
Is that mad or is that mad? Answers on a postcard please.