If it’s not flippin’ Comedy inflatable breasted vampiresses in tight fitting PVC catsuits or grinning (grinning…just..grinning… with those manic cold eyes…grinning) emaciated men sat at the end of the bed playing with brown threads; its bloody underground railways or bizarro weirdy people insisting I do things against my better judgement. Now I don’t normally post about my dreams because a) I can never remember them b) they are not always interesting [I once had a dream where I was playing tetris all night] and c) I don’t really think my dreams are worth mentioning about

However last night, possibly because I was watching a programme with a section about 1930’s architecture in Hastings on the TV before I went to bed (Coast), my dream found me in some weird almost Welsh, holiday place with art decco buildings and weird covered walkways. I think I’d gone there because Scott was there and he had given me a tip off of a good job. I got to this building, which from the outside was like a white washed cottage. Outside was a porter type gentleman who greeted me and I explained to him I was there about the job. He advised me to go round the back but I had to leave my bag and my coat in the street. I was reluctant to do so because my MP3 player was in my pocket but none the less I did as I was asked.

Around the back of the building was what looked like a kitchen door complete with those dangly bits of plastic that old people insist on hanging over their doorways because “It keeps out the flies” or so I’m told. There was also one of those metal chimneys attached to the wall and what looked like an air conditioning unit.

Inside the cottage it didn’t look like a cottage at all. It looked like one of those awful creaky 1930’s hotels with the nasty anaglypta wallpaper, awful dirty red carpet and creaky floors. I could also smell the fug of stale tobacco smoke (you know that smell that really lingers and what old people smell like?). I was given a blue blazer jacket and told to go into the dining room. The dining room was huge. Lined with mirrors and bedecked with tables and dreadful plastic ferns. I remember thinking “Why am I here? What is the job?” and looking to the back of the room I saw yet another door. So I thought “Fuck it” and went through only to find myself at a bloody railway station. Cue further dreaming about running for trains, crossing tracks and tunnels with trains in.

Now I’m certain that there is some weird pseudo psychological reason (probably involving hidden sexual repression or fear of failure or something) behind all the recurrent railway dreams but I’m really starting to get pissed off with them now. Not a night goes by without my dreams turning to that of underground trains. Even the saucy ones involving Avril Lavigne, Cristina Scabbia and Anneke van Giersbergen doing rude things end up in sodding railways. Am I some sort of reincarnated signal man? Do I harbour some secret desire to live underground or something?

Try as I might, I’ll never understand dreams.