The Dreams of Children
Last night I dreamt we were shopping.
We were shopping in a big modern city and I sought respite from the consumer rush by going into a surprisingly old-fashioned record shop, where I choose an album and sat in a big, comfy leather chair, with armrests and everything, and put on headphones so that I could spend forty minutes hiding from the masses and the misssus.
I can't remember which album I had chosen but was delighted to hear the brash and strident chords of The Jam's 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' begin.
Then, somewhere deep, deep down in my sub-concious, an alarm started ringing. Literally. I realised that I had changed the alarm app on my Kindle so that it played 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' when it went off. The music wasn't in my dream, it was in my bedroom.
I was living the dream.
We were shopping in a big modern city and I sought respite from the consumer rush by going into a surprisingly old-fashioned record shop, where I choose an album and sat in a big, comfy leather chair, with armrests and everything, and put on headphones so that I could spend forty minutes hiding from the masses and the misssus.
I can't remember which album I had chosen but was delighted to hear the brash and strident chords of The Jam's 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' begin.
Then, somewhere deep, deep down in my sub-concious, an alarm started ringing. Literally. I realised that I had changed the alarm app on my Kindle so that it played 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' when it went off. The music wasn't in my dream, it was in my bedroom.
I was living the dream.