Now I know I've flipped: dreaming about
Richard Whiteley..
I dreamt I was famous. No idea why: the first part of the dream was garbled up to the point where I found myself on a stage, something like the
Oscars. Celebrities were everywhere. I kept recognising faces in the crowd as
Bruce Forsyth handed over some kind of award. He wanted me to make a speech. Horrible flashes of
Gwyneth Paltrow went through my head and I couldn't think of anything. Then we were
backstage, and the
producer was explaining that now they were going to fly me to my new home. We drove off in a
limo, in the back of which I sat, next to an
outrageously beautiful boy of about 18, who was trying to
kiss me. I was trying to explain that he was too young, and I didn't kiss people unless I was in love with them, and he argued with me all the way to the
airport. I remember wondering why we were travelling on
JAL when we were obviously going to
the States. First class on the plane was amazing: enormous black leather cubes for seats with unfamiliar gadgetry attached.
David Byrne was asleep in the cube next to me. He had taken his shoes off. His toes were filthy.
Next thing I know we're in
St. Louis. I know it's St. Louis because we drive past a station bearing the name, although it looks exactly like
Sheffield station. It's dark. We stop near a beach. I get out and
Richard Whiteley is waving to me from down by the surf. The sea glitters blackly, lit by thousands of candles in the hands of a huge crowd. Richard counts me in, and I start singing 'La Mer'. The water has amazing acoustics. I start to float in the air as I sing (weirdly like
Somos) and Richard, with a small jazz ensemble, floats up beside me, all playing the song, the crowds, way below us, gradually shrinking.
Woke up.