Friday, 5 February 2021

Dream journal: Thirty-four

This is the thirty-fourth in a series of posts chronicling dreams I have had. As usual, the date shown is the date the dream was captured. This is usually the morning after the night the dream took place. You can’t wait very long before capturing a dream because it soon disappears from memory.

2 June 2020

Dreamt I was sitting in a room with my late uncle Geoff, who died in 2009 and who was my mother’s brother. The room we were in was at the top of a staircase inside a house resembling one of the terrace houses you often find in Sydney’s suburbs. We were talking about weights and standardisation, and he said something about a man who was from a country that was, in that regard, strict. I was to play tennis with the man on that day. I asked Geoff which country it was he referred to – I didn’t see the need for secrecy; if he wanted to tell me the man’s name he should’ve just done so – and he said, “New Zealand.” 

This puzzled me, as I had never thought of New Zealanders as being “strict”. But then I turned the argument around immediately as I remembered a NZ woman I had worked with in real life at Sydney Uni (I worked there from 2003 to 2009). 

Soon it was time to go to play the match. I had readied my bags, and had put them on the floor in a room off the corridor up a short flight of stairs, and now I went up there to retrieve them as the man I was to play tennis with came into the room where Geoff was still sitting. I said we could take my car – I had parked it outside in a lot near some trees, ready to use in case it was needed – but the man (whose name I never learned) said we should take a cab. I asked why and instead of answering me he digressed, talking about the tennis reservation he had made, until at last he said, in reply to a second prompt by me, “It might be hard to get past the station due to the traffic.” I had no idea which tennis courts he intended that we should play on, nor the name of the suburb in which they were located, so this information – delivered to me without any context – was not useful at all.

But outside, the traffic was, indeed, heavy; once we left the house we stood on a traffic island surrounded by crawling cars, some of which were cabs. I kept my hand up in the air as we stood there – my bags seemed to have disappeared, though I had certainly picked them up intending to take them with me – and the cars moved slowly through the intersection which was like the one at the confluence of Oxford Street and Queen Street, Woollahra.

Eventually a cab stopped, coming from the west, but a woman who was also waiting there darted to the side rear door, behind the driver, and got in. 

I was incensed; the man and I had been there since before she arrived on the scene. I said, though the open window of the cab, “Bitch!”  but she ignored me and the cab slowly drove off. I went back to holding up my hand and scanning the traffic with my eyes for any sign that a cab with a yellow light lit on its roof was turning out of the flow of cars towards us. Then I woke up.

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