While last night didn’t involve much sleep, it did feature an exciting dream in which I helped build what would be best described as a cross between an intricate slide and an epic theme park ride with a small team of people made up by my subconscious.
(Time to get the psychiatrist from Return to Oz on speed dial.)
The twists and turns were so intense I can still picture its complexity through the fug that comes with waking up to find what made sense while unconscious was almost completely wiped from my memory. Like many others, I’ve had dreams in the past that were so thrilling, the writer in me thought they would make a great film even when in the midst of them, only to find my mind's recycling bin had been emptied when I woke up; what a bastard the brain is.
I don’t know why I was involved in the building of the thing, other than to say that in the dream I didn't question it; this, despite the fact the plotline seemed to suggest we’d all contributed to the rollercoaster by accident before deciding to capitalise on our unintentional creation. It was part-helter-skelter, part-water chute with a soupçon of that runaway mineshaft in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. There was even a bit when I felt like I was in a steam train on a starlit night, yet despite the constant variety, it wasn’t scary; so much so, we all kept having another go on it.
It’s no wonder I couldn’t sleep, when my brain was being so active. It must have been like when Noel Edmonds devised his ill-fated theme park Crinkley Bottom; who’d have thought a tourist attraction fronted by a rotund, googly-eyed pink-&-yellow bowling-pin-shaped psychopath wouldn’t work? I’m referring to Mr Blobby, not Edmonds.