Fragmentary earlier part: two of my work colleagues (almost as if drunk? but it was still at work) mentioned they enjoyed my nodes and read them when I'd gone and thought parts were really beautiful. This was disturbing. Shouldn't I be sacked or something if caught?

Next fragment. J was annoyed by someone who hadn't thought her Scottish. She asked me whether she didn't seem so, and I said yes, adorably so, those soft cheeks, that short blonde hair, clear eyes. She put on the accent and said indignantly she didn't think she needed to do that for it to be recognized.

This connected to the part I remember most clearly, because when I woke up I lay there thinking how it was such a great big fat extended metaphor and I'd like to trade my unconscious in for something that didn't nag so much. J had become C, or had been all along; there wasn't much difference. I was cuddling up with her, very happy, all was right with the world and we were cruising along nicely at a pleasant speed. We were both snuggled up in the passenger's side seat of a car. It was doing just fine on its own, taking the occasional gentle curve.

I remarked that I suppose I really ought to get into the driver's seat since it wasn't quite safe, there could be a more jagged curve that wouldn't be handled automatically. Now, I can't drive, but I can make exaggerated side-to-side steering wheel movements that would pass muster on a TV show, so I did that. My unlicensed driving technique, which figures a great deal in dreams, is to hope that no real action other than going forwards is called for, and if a turn is really needed, hoping that I've got plenty of room to get it roughly right.

Of course soon after a car appeared, stalled on the wrong side of the road. We were headed straight at it so I veered wildly, up a verge, around, back into the stream of oncoming traffic on the wrong side of the road, and forced all them to swerve onto their wrong side of the road. Careening up another verge, we eventually came to rest. It was a bit scary, a bit dangerous, but more embarrassing than anything, with C beside me, since she really could drive. Perhaps she should have been.

Then we were walking around trying to find where we were and how to get somewhere. I had seen a good map of the town high up above the road, visible only from the road, and kept urging C that we should go and try to look at that, but she kept ignoring me. Not cross, hardly even teasing, just no longer taking my ideas very seriously. Nearer by there were municipal boards and maps we could look at up close, but there was no clear map of the whole area that we could use to orient ourselves: one of the wider area without enough detail, others of the centres of small nearby places in case we got there, but none of how actually to get there.

Yeah, that's the metaphor for me and C all right. Thanks, Sigmund, thanks a bunch.

Young Maine coon cats in a writers' colony need editors, who mostly appear in the form of vacuum cleaners smoothing their fur. This distresses them.

Snails, ants, crabs, and so on are kept in confined conditions, fed erratically, and occasionally turned loose to the floor where they may be accidentally stepped upon; they cope with their environment of what appear to be mostly takeout salad boxes filled with sand by huddling together immobile waiting for food, surging to escape when the time comes. Some of them develop intelligence, or rather express their native, usually hidden, verbal selves. The majority of the snails become almost as fast as ants. Let's hear it for punctuated equilibrium!

I've seen all these characters before, or at least in this dream I think there was a previous episode in which the writers' colony was introduced and I put the crabs and ants and snails in the boxes. This time around the crabs had been without water for some days, and some of them were dead, but the survivors fell on a quarter of an old tomato I gave them and rehydrated themselves successfully.

Is my subconscious trying to tell me I shouldn't get a pet?

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