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| Why yes, I'd love to dream without Rude Dudes starring in them, thanks. |
Even
though I write erotic romance, it doesn’t mean I’m a raging sexual maniac. To
have a saucy dream is a bit traumatic for me, to be honest. In this
particular dream I felt like I would in real life. Sandwiched between Ronan Keating
and an unknown man in my bed, I was conscious of being in my scabby old
nightclothes, but more importantly, the need to get the fuck out of the bed and
away from those perverts. When Ronan produced a Marigold glove and started
prodding at my lady garden with it, I knew I was in trouble. Thankfully, as the
blown-up item pressed against my nethers, I woke up and could only assume the
glove had been tied at the top to hold in all the air.
"I'm never going to wash up by hand again, not with gloves on anyway. Scarred for damn life thanks to you, Keating."
Let me
tell you, I was thankful to be awake. I had that startled look, I’m sure, of
someone not knowing whether they’d had a dream or if it was real, because, of
course, I’d woken up in the same damn bed my dream had been set in. Was that
huddle beside me the unknown man and not Hub? And was Ronan on the other side,
waiting with a sinister smile and a bloated glove, ready to confess his needs
in that Irish accent of his, or maybe even sing it in a Boyzoney manner? I
confess I checked. Yes, I turned to the side only to see my flowery wallpaper.
"Never had a
rose in full bloom looked so good. I reached out to touch it, thankful my fingertips only met with wallpaper and not the soft, Irish skin of a crooner."
I snuggled up
to Hub then fell back to sleep—only to find myself in another weird dream with
sexual connotations. What-the-fuckery was afoot, and I was at a loss to get
myself awake. My mind wasn’t allowing it.
Picture this. Night.
Balmy summer. And I was naked in a tree-surrounded car park with David Beckham.
We were on the tarmac on our backs, looking up at the stars. A car came along
and parked right by us, the front of the undercarriage over me, one of the
tyres perilously close to my shoulder. I remember thinking he’d better stop or
he’d fuck my poorly shoulder up even more. The driver got out. Someone else
walked across the car park, and, as me and David watched, the driver killed
them.
 |
| Random woman with baps on display outside at night. |
The dream
switched, as they so often do, to another scene. The police had arrived, and
myself and Beckham were giving statements, totally unabashed at being naked. I
asked myself why the cops had clothes on, and thought they were weird to have such
items covering them. It felt like showing your jolly bits was normal, so for
them to have theirs covered…nope, couldn’t get my head around that.
"Why haven't you go your tackle out, Mr Coppah, swaying in this here cool breeze?"
Anyway, I woke
up at that point, frowning and asking myself why both dreams had been on the
rude side. I mean, the last time I’d had a rude one was years ago when I’d dreamt
of being naked in a stinky old tent with Liam Gallagher while he’d warbled
Wonderwall at me. After he’d finished singing, I left the tent—naked again—and
wandered between thousands of others, wondering when the concert was going to
start. I assumed I was on one of those weekend wotsits, where people camped out
and got high for two days while waving their lighters about in the air when
famous artists got on stage to belt out their latest songs.
 |
| My thumb is simply not for licking. |
I ended up on
a main road, the tents behind me, and stood there with my thumb out. I’d never
hitchhike, so that felt weird—even weirder when Gallagher appeared by my side
on his knees, licked my thumb then told me not to look back in anger and that
his band, Oasis, would save me.
Like I said,
what-the-fuckery, all of it.
So, I braved
it and went to the dream dictionary to find out why Ronan had prodded me with
an inflated washing-up glove and why Beckham had been looking up at the stars
with me. I’m a tad old-fashioned, and although I know I can’t control my dreams
and it isn’t my fault who stars in them with me, I kind of want Hub looking at
the stars and Hub poking me with a…no, actually, I don’t want that, but you get
the idea.
So, here’s the
interpretation. Snippets from dreammoods.com:
Marigold: To
see marigolds in your dream denotes health and longevity. (I’ll take that, even
though I’m sure they mean a flower and not some fucked-up glove.)
Famous Singer:
It indicates harmony and glorification of the human spirit. (Oh, right, so what
the hell was him poking me all about?)
Poking: Perhaps
the dream is giving you a poke or a nudge to move forward. Thus, the dream may
be a pun on being "pokey" or slow. You need to stop sitting around
and start accomplishing your goals. (It took me going through THAT for my
subconscious to just say: Pull your fucking finger out, get a grip and get on
with things?)
Murder: To
dream that you witness a murder indicates deep-seated anger towards somebody.
Consider how the victim represents aspects of yourself that you want to destroy
or eliminate. (No idea who the murder victim was, so this doesn’t help. I had
anger at myself in my waking hours, though, and I did want to destroy the part
of myself that was making me unhappy, so yeah, I dig this.)
Naked: If you
are accepting of someone else's nudity, then it implies that you can see right
through them and their intentions. Or perhaps you are completely accepting them
for who they are. If you do not care about someone else's nudity, then it
suggests that you need to learn not to be afraid of rejection. (So why was I
confused at the cops being clothed? Sod this analysis business for a laugh…)
Okay, I get
it. When I’m stressed and unhappy at myself I’m going to have rude dreams. Best
be making myself a bit more cheerful then, because I dread to think what the
hell my subconscious will come up with next. A cow’s udder instead of a glove?
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| My name is Marigold. |
"I'm watching you, Ellis. I'll flap my udders at you as soon as you think you're safe..."
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