So now I’m even bloody dreaming about politics.
I woke, bolt upright, just before five this morning. My head was buzzing with fractured partial images of bumblebees and masked anarchists trying to get me to sign petitions and compost toilets and chasing journalists down Whitehall and being followed by a well-known restaurant critic through Parliament Square.
Bizarre, I know, but most of these images do make a weird kind of sense in the context of the last few months of my life. Except for the restaurant critic (although he may have appeared in my dream because I was reading one of his columns in the paper yesterday). And the chasing journalists bit. That bit I do not understand.
And there was even a fully-formed paragraph in my head which seems to have appeared there while I was asleep. Very odd. So I got up and wrote it down (not that it made much sense when I actually did get up this morning).
I don’t usually remember my dreams at all, but lately they have been particularly vivid and memorable. And profoundly unpleasant. This one makes for a pleasantly strange change, whatever it means.
I wonder what my brain is trying to tell me?