
I must have always had dreams but could never recall them before. Rather than a boon the dream thing irritates – or rather does their sheer mundane nature.
I’ve always thought I was well endowed in the imagination department. So while something out of the Inception locker – Leonardo DiCaprio’s new movie – might be too big an ask, say, a little erotic ramble through the id would be welcome.
What I get instead from Morpheus is the dream world’s equivalent of the English soccer team – a lot of anxious running around to no particular purpose.
Freud would have gone into his father’s wool business if he just had my dreams to interpret.
This one is typical. I’m in a large car park looking for a car – not its owner – trying to return a rubber (an eraser rather than a condom). The strange thing is that the rubber looks exactly like a slab of smoked tofu. My concern is that when I finally find the right car how will I be able to leave the rubber under its windscreen wiper. That’s it; it’s a wrap, not.
Stick to the day job GC, says Jaffa. If Freud had gone into his father's wool business, would he have ended up counting sheep?
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