Would you like to live in my attic as my prisoner?

The thing is about dreams is that they are only interesting to the person who actually had the dream (even you, Luther King, have to admit – it did go on a bit) and not anyone else. Don’t bother telling the people you work with or friends or family members about your dream – it’s boring and they don’t care. Even if they had a starring role in your dream – they still won’t care. I knew this, yet I still considered it to be the perfect opening line when I introduced myself to a new colleague.

A new guy started at work a few weeks ago and instead of being normal and introducing myself first hand, I stalked him on Facebook first. I often find myself looking at people on Facebook I don’t even know. You know how it is – looking at one friend and then having a look at one of their friends and before you know it, you have lost half a day being creepy and looking through ‘Sally and Sean’s’ wedding photos. My mum is still from a time when she tells me every day that there are ‘deviants’ out there in cyberspace just waiting for their opportunity to groom me. I tell her that I am certain that internet perverts won’t be interested in grooming me, a 29 year old, but her answer is simply, ‘you never know what kind of weirdos are sat behind the computer – always be ready.’ Little does she know that it is her own daughter who whiles away the hours looking through the wedding albums of total strangers. I am the pervert. Anyway, back to the dreams.

So, done the Facebook stalking and have become familiar with the new guy at work – from my creepy web research I discovered he was French (I had already heard his accent though and concluded that myself) and his girlfriend was a professional ballet dancer (again, concluded that myself, of course his girlfriend is a ballet dancer, he is a bonjouring French beef-cake!). AAAGH! One innocent Tuesday  night, I go to sleep and have a dream about him. Not that kind of dream. When I see him at work the day of the dream from the night before, madness takes control and I decide that this is the perfect conversation opener.

“Hello, nice to meet you – I have been meaning to come over and introduce myself to you before but didn’t get the chance. Now that I see you, I have to tell you that last night I had the strangest dream about you. Basically, you were in it and you lived in my house. Actually, you lived in the attic of my house and I would bring you food each morning before I went to work. You wore a bag on your head like Saddam did in his final days…you were sort of my prisoner of war! Funny dream, eh?”

I outstretched my hand to give my best ‘isn’t this situation hilarious and won’t we laugh about this in a month or two’ handshake – to which he reluctantly responded to with a few of his fingers. He was probably scared that I might have a concealed taser gun under my sleeve in the hope to make my dream a reality.

Feeling under pressure, I realised that I had to think fast. Under pressure and thinking fast are two things that I deal with excellently. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you? And she is a ballet dancer?”

Where was I going with this? Like most of my life situations, I would be the last to know.

“How do you know that!?” He asked, clearly still very afraid that at any moment I might be about to put a canvas bag over his head and wheel him away to die in my attic. His question was making me sweat – probably not as sweaty and uncomfortable as he was feeling, having a total stranger inform him of personal details about his own life.

“Oh, I read it somewhere…someone told me about the dancing…and the France thing…” This was over. I had to extract myself from this painful situation before he shouted for back-up assistance. With the classic (and very plausible) “I think I just heard my phone ring” move, I ran away and hid in the sample room for the next 2 days.

In the excitement of telling him my dream story, I never did reveal my name to him and that is the one good thing to come from this encounter. Like many men in my life he knows my face, but has no name (joke mum, if you are reading) and with that, I wisely concluded that I should keep the canvas bag and put it over my head instead.


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