In my dreams

I can't make head or tail of my dreams. Most of them I instantly forget, but the ones I remember are invariably anxiety dreams - I'm lost and I don't know where I should be; I know where I should be but I don't know how to get there; I've lost my shoulder bag or my suitcase or some other possession; I'm being chased by someone; I'm trapped in a locked room; or I'm supposed to be giving a speech, but I've lost my notes and have no idea what to say.

I hardly ever dream about a real-life, everyday situation. Occasionally I dream of Jenny, or a blogmate, or a Facebook friend, or a former workmate, but only once in a blue moon. Scary imaginings are the norm.

I don't have any of the classic dreams others mention - walking into a social event and realising I'm naked; shaking hands with the Queen; taking a test; floating or flying;  searching for a toilet; or murdering someone.

My dreams have no relation to my daily life. I don't feel lost, I know I'm exactly where I should be. My belongings hardly ever get stolen. Nobody chases me (except when I've left something in a shop). I've never been trapped in a locked room. I've given the odd speech, my notes to hand.

If the dreams are trying to tell me something, I've no idea what. As I say, they're totally disconnected from real life. Maybe they're a hangover from my childhood fears, which my brain has never managed to erase. Or they're scenes from various books I've read, which have stuck in my mind.

But it would be lovely to have some normal, pleasant dreams. Like walking through a wood, listening to birdsong. Or eating a delicious three-course meal. Or being in a Venetian gondola. Or taking a train through the Alps.

Fat chance.

No news yet on the Tate Modern court case. I'll let you know the moment I hear anything.