20 September 2015
We are told that dreams are only recalled if we are woken from deep sleep.
Also that cheese does not create dreams as often thought, it just creates the indigestion that wakes you up and allows you to recall them.
We Monks had no cheese last evening but we seemed to wake each other up by simultaneous nightmare shouty dreams.
Our dreams were so vivid that we each felt obliged to blurt out to each other what occurred or what occurred in our virtual consciousness. We found ourselves competing for the better dream.
But then fell asleep and the dreams were destined to be lost, eradicated by further hours of deep sleep.
In due course we were both in turn woken by Cat Flap Charlie and the dawn sunshine through the blinds.
Neither of us recalled the dreams until we listened to the very wordy Will Self on BBC Radio 4 this same morning after the dreams. He spoke on the subject of his personal insomnia.
"I could have written that," said Mrs Monk.
"But you didn't," I said. "Will Self wrote it."
This was not the response Mrs Monk wanted, but it was the spark that made us think hard about those two lost dreams deep in our subconscience and which may otherwise have been lost forever.
Mrs Monk's dream should perhaps be relayed by Mrs Monk. As I understand it, it concerns the recent abuse Jeremy Corbyn has received from the media, and the Tories, and even the Labour party. Mrs Monk's unconscious dream appeared to be an extension of her very real twitter feed; the abuse of Jeremy is currently the topic most likely to test her spleen.
My dream was as follows.
I am burdened with packages walking along a gravel path in some surreal wilderness (Think Samuel Becket set for Waiting for Godot). I come across a very old but small dog whimpering. He has no fur and a scabby skin.
I encourage him to follow me all the while addressing him as "Charlie" as if we were familiar with each other.
"Come on Charlie", I say "I can't carry you I have all this stuff"
I put everything down and rummage for a lead to attach to Charlie so I could lead Charlie to a safe place. Frustrated I get down on all fours and beg him face to face to co-operate.
"Come on Charlie,"
Charlie whimpers and cries and licks my face.
He then turns his head to his left. I follow his gaze and there stands three rough young unsmiling men. These are "wise guys" and Charlie and I are outnumbered.
I get to my feet all the while muttering and cursing Charlie, gathering up my belongings expecting a mugging or worse.
However the meanest young man takes off his belt and surprises me by improvising a lead for Charlie.
At that point we Monks woke up simultaneously.
Not sure if it was Mrs Monk yelling at the Daily Telegraph in defence of Old Dog Corbyn or me bricking it in defence of Old Dog Charlie.
Thank you Will Self for enabling us Monks to recall what was on our unconscious minds.