Dreams

You know those annoying people who say you should write down your dreams because they can give you ideas for novels? Pah! Not my dreams.

Last night I dreamed I was in India. Sounds like a good start to a story, doesn't it? Ah, but I was in someone's house and one of the men tried to kill me, but the other people persuaded him to dance instead. Hmm. In order to keep him happy, they thought it best to cook chickens (what is it with me and chickens?) so they put them into a huge frying pan. The pan was filled with dirty-looking water and the chickens were still alive, still had their feathers, and they were paddling in the pan of water. I was intrigued because they all stayed in the pan, so I went to take a closer look. One of the chickens leapt out and started to peck me in the face. I took a step backwards and the chicken jumped to the floor and started to peck my ankles. I went round the room trying to escape the chicken. The Indians thought I was dancing. (See, even in my dreams I'm not Chief Chicken. Sob.)

Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but most of my dreams are much weirder than that.

And please, please, please, nobody try to find out the meaning of that dream. I'm sure I don't want to know.