IAN McMILLAN Dream delivers a message that’s outside the box

LATELY, for reasons I can’t fathom, I’ve been having vivid technicolour widescreen surround-sound dreams. As a young man I would write down my dreams when I woke up and they would feed the kinds of poems I was writing at the time which were surreal and fragmented. The poems were kaleidoscopic montages where meaning often ran a poor second to images and the sounds of the words; as I got older I fell a little out of love with this kind of writing but recently I’ve begun to explore it again. Maybe these scattered and vivid times call for scattered and vivid writing.

One dream I had recently has stayed with me. As the curtains open in the dream theatre I am suffering headaches and stiffness in my limbs so I go to the doctor. The doctor, for purely dreamreasons, is wearing a yellow top hat and his words are accompanied by a nurse playing the trombone. He examines me and then tells me, with a grave and resonant voice that sounds slowed down, that I am gradually and inexorably turning into a pillar box. I can smile about this now, in the clear light of day, as I type this, but I recall that in the dream and shortly after waking up I was absolutely terrified.

The doctor told me that there was no way the condition could be reversed and that in a matter of months I would be a fully-functioning postbox, bright red and with collections twice a day. The only positive thing was that I could choose where I wanted to be sited, perhaps somewhere in the middle of Darfield or outside Oakwell, the home of the mighty Barnsley FC. He tried to comfort me by saying that my grandchildren could post birthday cards straight into my gaping rectangular mouth.

This wasn’t much comfort, to be honest with you. He also told me to make sure I visited all my relatives so that they could remember what I looked like and I was just packing my suitcase to go and see my relatives in Scotland

(as I began to turn a vivid shade of pillar-box red) when I woke up. I rushed into the bathroom to check the shape of my mouth and was relieved to see that it was still mouth-shaped.

I was in that weird liminal state where the dream still felt hyper real, more real than that pale impression of the dream they call Real Life. I gazed steadily at my face. Was it my imagination or was I actually a bit redder than usual? Was my mouth starting to change shape, just a little bit?

I went downstairs in my dressing gown which, thankfully, is blue and not red. I sat on the settee. Was it my imagination or was I starting to feel a bit, well, metallic and immovable. (Spoiler alert: it was just my imagination, running away with me, as the song goes.)

I started to shape my mouth into that of a pillarbox’s slot, just to see if it could be done. It was hard, but just about achievable. I adopted a robotic rictus grin. I stretched my legs out from the settee to see how it might feel if I was actually a postbox. I stretched out my arms and tightened them.

It felt odd but liberating; after all, the only thing a postbox has to do is be a postbox. It doesn’t have to worry about a thing. I stretched my mouth wider.

My wife came into the room. ‘Been dreaming again?’ she asked.