It was a complicated dream with many strands. There was a theatre production that I’d been brought in to either direct or design or even produce, it wasn’t clear. I remember a series of to-scale theatre boxes they were showing me and when I asked if I could see the costume designs they had laughed. There were lots of doors I had to pass through to get to the office, doors that involved electronic buzzers and keypads. The end of dream involved a race I was supposed to participate in. It was for charity and with not many competitors. I’d written the time down in my diary and arrived early only to see the runners meet the organiser at the finish line. Had I got the time wrong? I walked up to the organiser and, deeply mortified, expressed my apologies and explained that I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. I always thought you were a bit of a daydreamer, she said. She looked world-weary. There had been so few competitors. I tried to make it better, to placate, cajole, promise to do more, to make amends. She began to soften. Then I woke a couple of minutes before my alarm.

You, a daydreamer, he said, laughing, when I told him after breakfast. She’d looked a little like me, and like my Norwegian friend.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.