Vivid Dreams

I have come back to Cambridge for a few days just to finalise the work on my dissertation - I can pretend all I want that I can work at home, but the work rate is by no means as efficient or productive, hence I have forced myself to retreat to my libraries and carry out the final charge. Last night was my first night back, and the clocks going forward coupled with a rather late night (2:30am rather than 1:30am as a bed time) left me rather exhausted. So when it reached about 10:30 I crawled into bed, read a few chapters of my book and fell asleep. Now I am not someone who usually has vivid dreams, or if I do I can only remember details, and from those details there is rarely any possible reconstruction of plot. Most recently I recall visiting Miles Jupp’s bedroom (not in a saucy way) and the only way in was via a fun slide, rather than a door. Perhaps this says something of my opinion of Miles?

There is a detail I recall from last night, however, which is both disturbing and rather funny - hence why I felt the need to share it with someone. I was sleeping fairly fitfully, there were various friends appearing in my dream, a rather speedy car drive for one reason and another, and a few details that are thinly strung together. But in the middle of the night I woke up with a start and looked to my door, which is opposite my bed. To my horror there was someone stood there, a man I think, but he had his back to me and was staring at the back of the door muttering something. My heart was racing, I knew I wasn’t asleep, but rather than scream or cry out, I began to formulate the words ‘excuse me’ in my mind. Now - if this had been a murdered, a thief, or even a real human (spoiler alert - it was a figment of my imagination) how on earth did I suppose ‘excuse me’ would cut it.

It was in this moment that I felt frightfully and painfully British. For a stranger to break into my bedroom, my first response was a polite request for an explanation of his presence. But as I said, thankfully my feeble accusation did not matter a jot, because within three or four seconds I had blinked the man out of sight, realising that I must have been on that boundary between sleep and wakefulness. Nevertheless my heart took a little while to resettle itself, and I found my eyes drawn back to the door every so often - just to check. In future I think I ought to plan a response to someone breaking into my room that carries a little more strength than ‘excuse me’. Perhaps ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?’, or ‘get out!’. But I fear the painfully polite, endlessly apologetic Brit in me would always rather approach social situations with caution and self-deprecation, so it is far more likely that I will be apologising profusely, before meekly departing from my room and wishing them a comfortable stay.