Ground Control

It’s weird dream time again. I think there is probably some research that explains why we are having more dreams and why those dreams are suddenly weirder. My understanding is that the brain is like a giant filing cabinet and dreams help us decide where to put things.

So my brain has decided to file Captain Tom Moore’s one hundred laps of the garden with David Bowie and some unusual thoughts about death, drug fuelled dinner parties and inheriting cats that can bark.

It’s a shame really because Captain Moore’s sponsored walk is a good enough story on its own. It’s a story of hope, resilience and how a small idea can turn into something remarkable. Tom will be 100 years old in a few days time, so he is confined to his home by this virus. Many people his age really can’t understand why that is necessary. They are fairly certain that they will die soon anyway. He decided to do a sponsored walk to raise money for the NHS. As I write this blog he has currently raised nearly £18million, which I don’t expect he ever thought possible.

My logical brain thinks it would have been a surprise to him but my dreaming brain told me that he knew. David Bowie explained that it was all part of a master plan and that some people know when they are born to greatness.
“Like Boris Johnson,” he said, tossing his long red hair and smoothing down the huge collars on his brightly coloured space suit.
“Boris?”
“Yes, he knew, didn’t he? That he was going to be history. He wrote about it.”
I snorted and said, “But he thought he was going to command a war not get a cough!”
I was shocked at my dream self’s cynicism.
“We don’t get all the details when we are on earth,” said Bowie, rolling his eyes at me.  “I mean I got it wrong didn’t I?”
I scratched my head.
“Well, Major Tom. Clearly it should have been captain.”
“You think that song was a message to a man who was going to walk round his garden a few times?”
David looked at me.
“Well, duh. Idiot! Of course it was. You didn’t  think I made it up all on my own do you?”
“Yes, actually I did. I think you were a wacky genius.”
Bowie looks cross, stands up and stomps around for a bit on his high platform shoes.
“I even reminded him to take his protein pills.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes.
Bowie flounced off muttering something about being too busy right now with all the incoming to waste time on me.

I watched him attend the dinner party of someone I knew, to sing n the corner and pass drugs round.
The person I knew collapsed and David shouted, “Incoming!” at the sky.
The cat barked.
“You can have the cats,” Bowie said, “Your daughter will love them.”

My brain is weird.