The Midult’s guide to...

Annabel Rivkin & Emilie Mcmeekan

Dreamy sex

It was about dream-trump. Pursed, pouty, infant-beautyqueen lips and everything. We were disturbed

Apparently, dreaming about sex with a famous person is all about our need to attain glory, fortune and selfcelebration. it’s about status. Fame by physical association. And that makes sense to us – really it does.

So if we had recently woken up in the middle of an explosive wrangle with dream-go sling, dream- elba or even dream-zuckerberg, we might be feeling rather… affirmed. But our most recent sex dream( we are definitely not saying which one of us was the dreamer) wasn’t about dream-clooney or even d rea m-bieber. it was about dream-trump. Hair and all. tiny little pursed, pou ty, infant-beauty-queen lips and everything. We were genuinely disturbed. Appalled.

Covered in shame, we confessed, over tequila, later that week. ‘Oh don’t worry,’ said one friend. ‘i had the best sex of my sub conscious life with dream-mick Hucknall.’ ‘dream-fat-oldBrando,’ said another. meagre comfort at best. nothing on dream-trump.

Why does the unhelpful sub conscious lead us towards shattering sexual satisfaction with those we find repellent above all others? it’s not even hate sex. it’s repulsion sex.

We suspect it’s because dreams go wonky in the summertime. it’s so stupidly light. is it day or is it night? Am ia wake or a mi asleep or ami dead? And during a heatwave, sleep, such as we can grab it, seems to be infected by lunacy and angst. Children are not good with hot nights and midults are even worse, because all the jaded subconscious anxieties concertina up to inform the most twisted and tangled dreams rooted, horribly, in t he daily grind. there’ s nothing exotic about these puppies:

The Uber That never comes

you’re in a massive r ush: stressfully, sweatingly, swearingly late. nothing must make you later or you’ll get sacked or someone will die or the world will end. But you stare at your phone screen a nd t he Uber is get t ing f ur t her a nd further away. you keep cancelling and rebooking – your dream-self knows this is unwise but you are unable to stop yourself. Ubers, Ubers everywhere, but not a ride to be had. you are stranded. probably forever.

YOU are – suddenly, somehow – an accountant

you ‘wake up’ and go to work but, when you arrive, it’s not your office and you are an accountant. ‘Hold on,’ you say, ‘i am not an accountant .’ your first client laughs nervously and ask show their pension plan is progressing. And you say, ‘i am not an accountant. ican’ t do maths. id on’ t have a pension. id on’ th ave a will. id on’ tu nd er stand money. i am not an accountant. i. Am. not. An. Accountant.’

dinner plans

you reach for your diary. you intend to pencil in an early dinner with friends at the end of the month. But, oh god, what f resh hell is t his? you sca n t he diary and you are going out every single night for the rest of your life. And every dinner starts at 8.30pm. Which even your dream-self knows actually means 9pm.

The waterfall

you a re goi ng on a date. it ’s been a while. F r isk y is not t he word. your expectations are running high, which is a triumph of hope over experience, but give up on love (sex) and you give up on life, right? you open your wardrobe to dig out something super-foxy but… what? Waterfall cardigans. nothing else. in beige and grey. you rush to your chest of drawers: more waterfall cardigans. nothing but. you will never get laid again. you put one on and turn on Gardeners’ Question Time. themidult.com