Pulp friction

The other evening I explained to Mrs Graph that I had had, that morning, a very brief dream before being woken by the alarm on my phone. In the dream I was standing at a grand piano, and about to sing a duet with the pianist, who just happened to be the uber-cool former frontman of Britpop sensations Pulp.

In return for this revelation I was mocked mercilessly. Ridiculed isn't too strong a word. So intense was the drive for humiliation that the Steppy - home on her break from University - was brought through to the room to join in.

Now, I can accept that maybe it wasn't a cool dream; but I don't make them happen like that, any more than most other people do. Pah.

Worse though is that the very next morning, Mrs Graph decided to share with me her own dream of the night just passed.

"I was at a swimming pool. And it had a really nice lounge area. And I was wandering around the lounge when I saw someone I knew in the dream; so I sat down and had a really nice long chat with him. Guess what! It was Ronnie Corbett!"

How the hell does that work then?

One who can only find his way by loon might...

A man is entitled to his dreams, isn't he?

Like the one I have about the family of very small people who live inside the lid of a jar of marmalade. Or the one with the ever-expanding cushion. Or the one where the train chases me through the garden of crazy-paving until my foot gets trapped between the broken pavers and I wake up just as it's about to hit me.

I don't much like that one.

Or the one about the cushion, come to that. Suffocation isn't pretty.

Why is the train a steam train? And why do I imagine that a train can chase me around, constantly rolling track out in front of itself so it can continue the pursuit? And why do I get that dream when I have a cold?

Chuff, chuff, chuff, chuff; chuff, chuff, chuff, chuff...

And why do people think they are more likely to have dreams when they eat cheese before they go to bed? I really can't think why that would work...