The Dream

I had a great but strange dream last night, in which I was writing a book or screenplay along the lines of a Dan Brown at 10 Downing Street. But also I was playing the role of principal Agent, not as an actor reciting his lines, but more like watching myself in real life. I remember realizing that the Prime Minister would only give me about three minutes of explanations before he started beating me up over the “Australia Fiasco”, and why me? “You know,” they told me, “the PM doesn’t take kindly to being told the mission was an utter failure, let alone that we let the press got wind of it.”

In the dream I noted this was a great script line (or so it seemed at the time). As in all great dreams, I seemed to be utterly lacking authorship or control over the direction the plot was taking: I was just recording what was happening to me, like the fearless and unbelieving spectator, as my future spooled out in real time onto the vast wraparound cinema of life …

Finally in my dream I heard the dread ring of one of those special “hot line” phones, and they rang the PM through to me, and of course it would be me who had to take that call, though I had no idea at all what went wrong or why it should be I to take the blame for it. This would surely be the first and last time I would speak with a PM in my mercifully brief career in Her Majesty’s service. Then I realized it was my 4:45AM early wake-up alarm that I’d set for this morning’s drive to Phoenix …

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