I thought it was a cow. I heard a mooing, a repeated lowing sound. Anxious to get home out of the wind, rain and darkness, it took some time before I yielded to curiosity and turned round. It wasn’t a cow, how could it have been? On Station Road at 3.45 am in the morning? I ask you. It was a truck. The mooing noise was the driver working the automated platform at the back. He was standing on it holding onto a wire trolley piled high with pizza boxes. Domino Pizza. He was delivering to Domino Pizza next to the Job Centre. You see I’ve been distracted ever since I woke this morning. It was my dream, I can’t seem to shake it off. And it’s making me see things oddly. All is not quite steady, or stable. I forgot to turn on the radio, I sprayed hair mousse into my hand when I didn’t need it. I am discombobulated.

A dream full of symbolic imagery. We were travelling, he and I, on a journey back from somewhere, but we also had to go back to a place (Nerja) to get home. Lots of going through doors to get to the other side, lots of discussions about and actual eating of food. Sitting on coaches, waiting to go through customs. Seeing the landscape from above. At one point I went through one door and came upon a pantry full of slaughtered animals, well, cuts of bloodied meat and there were the most enormous collection of knives on the block. Huge curved cleavers and choppers. No, it’s not that door, someone called after me, it’s that one. And I went through another and there was a white bowl full of clean water. Then I was hungry and there was only meat available. Other people were sitting around eating, I feel embarrassed that I couldn’t join in and then I saw a plate of dried fruits. I ate some hungrily, greedily, again ashamed by my appetite. It tasted of watery sugar. At another stage of the dream I’d lost him and I was sitting next to a beautiful young man I clearly fancied. I held his hand furtively, turning around to see if he could see us. I felt disloyal but my desire for this man was overwhelming. At one point I even bit his hand. You are a one, he said, laughing. (Was this a response to my listening to Johnnie Walker’s tribute to David Cassidy on Sunday? I’d been flabbergasted by my feelings of exhilaration (and indeed, desire) hearing his recorded voice and renditions of Could it be Forever and Cherish. Was this what was playing out in my dream? We’d talked about it and he’d said it was perfectly understandable, teenage crushes were potent things, blah, blah.) The man talked about which restaurant he was going to eat in in Nerja. Then we were walking together towards it and each side of us as the sea was chock-full of fish. A plethora of fish, so much that you couldn’t see the sea. He talked of sharks being spotted nearby. Must be because of the fish, I said. Then I was with him again and the man had gone. We were waiting in an ante room waiting to go through customs and continue our journey. There was a woman there too, who looked rather like Sarah Kennedy. She gave me a bag. Here, she said, something to freshen yourself up with, make you like a woman again. I looked inside. It contained come curling tongs, tampons, sanitary towels, face wipes, make-up and so on. I was unsure what to do. It seemed like a kind offer. But I didn’t want or need anything. No thank, I said, handing back the bag. I better not take anything I hadn’t packed myself. It’s alright, she said you can say I gave it to you. No, I said. I woke to the sound of my alarm. There were many other aspects. A man we were in a car with talking about insurance and buying a home. He was seedy, untrustworthy, I felt unsafe with him, but the rest has gone.

What an outpouring. I must be off to work now. Trying to not get stressed with all that I have to do. And never knowing if it will be today. Soon, I know. Keep her safe.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.