Dream writing

They were there. Thick pungent dreads wrapped around their heads, stuffed into huge crocheted hats like hermit crabs, soft whispered rhythmic voices muffled against the steamy windows on the number 12 bus when it’s raining, and water gathers in tiny sparkling droplets on the glass. Did I recognise that hotel with the ice sculpture and the people next door who wore matching shirts and danced the conga into the dining room? Except it wasn’t in the hotel it was the dining room   we used to sit in at school. And then the horses came, jingling and jangling at their bits, the last one, the most beautiful and the hardest to control threw his head up and down as if he was on a carousel, a gaudy painted fairground ride and the crowds shouted and cheered. We went to the sea because the postman said we should, that it was the day when the tide would be very high and that the waves might crash right over the quay into the car park and wouldn’t that be a sight to see. But we never got to see it because we found ourselves in Sainsburys looking for ham, the right sort of ham, smoked and cut into thin slices and an avocado. And I thought I saw him standing by the crisps but then he turned around and it wasn’t him at all, even though he said he knew me and said “Hello”. But I had to rush as I needed to get the washing   in before the weather changed. And Gollum the cat stuck his paw under the gap at the bottom of the front door as I put my key in the lock but that couldn’t have happened because he has been dead for 3 months already. Someone was having a party in the street and Antonio from number 14 taught everyone how to make Caipirinhas in plastic cups and when he took his shirt off, we realised he was covered in tattoos. I must ask him to take it off again when I next bump into him in the corner shop, but I must be careful as he might think I am mad. Because Snowy the parrot seemed to be sitting on his shoulder. It’s always fun to get to the boat, to unload the bags and light the stove, shaking out the bedding, turning the fridge on, the engine roaring into life, belching out diesel fumes into the frosty morning as we put the bacon on and got the coffee going. And apparently my mum is on her way which is strange because I haven’t seen her for thirty years and I’m not sure I can even remember what her voice sounds like. Someone has made spiral patterns out of little white stones all around our patio and sprinkled pink sand in between so it looks like one of those mandalas. It must have taken ages and will be spoilt because it’s bound to rain. And when I asked Michael to pass the tea towel he handed me the dog instead and I was too polite to say anything