I rarely have dreams.
I don’t know if it’s because I tend to wake often in the night and, therefore, don’t have dreams, or if in fact I dream and don’t remember them.
I had a dream last night, though, and it was interrupted by my alarm going off this morning, which probably helped to keep it fresh in my mind.
I can’t remember how it started, but I was in Chelmsford, heading towards The Cave, which is a strip club opposite the train station. In the dream, it was (disappointingly) not a strip club, but a music venue, and there was a small A-board outside advertising the fact that Lionel Richie was playing live that night.
Although it wasn’t busy, I was aware that it would quickly become fairly hectic, and so decided to walk past the main entrance and away from town. I had no intention of seeing the concert and figured that by walking past the entrance I would avoid any crowds.
As I walked past, I stopped to take in the poster. It was a picture of Lionel and he had his afro back and looked similar to his 70s self. It was £5 entry and I stood there working out that the venue held about a thousand (no idea where these figures came from by the way) and that they’d only make five grand from the entrance fee, and that they’d be losing money as it would cost more than that to hire Lionel to sing.
I figured that they must know what they are doing and that they’d probably be happy to take a hit on ticket prices given what they’d make on selling drink inside.
As I pondered this, Bruce Willis appeared and start spraying the crowd with machine gun fire. The crowd that had amassed while I’d been contemplating the poster was huge, and they scattered wildly in all directions away from Bruce who by now was standing only a few feet away from me.
In the chaos, I had stumbled back and fallen on my backside. Bruce looked at me and asked me why I wasn’t running. Wasn’t I scared? Well, I was. Bloody petrified, and confused. Not because Bruce Willis was in town armed with a machine gun, but because he’d opened fire on a crowd.
Bruce continued staring at me, and I continued to try and figure out what the Hell was going on. Suddenly he turned the gun on me and asked if I wasn’t scared of him, would I be scared of the bullets? As he finished the sentence he sprayed a few bullets at me, peppering my upper thigh with shots.
Then he started laughing manically. This wasn’t funny! He’d just shot me in the leg. I put my hand across my thigh. It was wet, but not with blood. I looked at my hand. Water. He was using bullets made of water! That’s why I wasn’t injured. And that’s what he found so funny.
I got to my feet, and as I did I heard a noise from behind me. The crowd was making their way angrily towards Bruce - and me.
Bruce didn’t stick around, turning and fleeing towards an old barn (which definitely doesn’t exist in that part of Chelmsford), and I followed him, ducking in and out of stacks of hay and leaping over old wooden fences, my heart beating faster and faster.
And then the alarm went off.
As I say, I don’t often have dreams. Thankfully.