Take several sachets of powdered white chemicals, victorian serial killer slasher fic (featuring scenes of absinthe and laudanum, news articles that lead to information on how to clean ‘cut’ cocaine, red wine (that well known medicine. Well, at least it wasn’t toast or sodding soup. Being ill is so gastronomically boring. Or just onomically boring. I can’t decide. See? That’s how bored I am! Onomically bored!) and some hobnobs — listen, I can blame the biscuits if I want to. Ok? It’s my virus and I’ll spread crumbs if I want to.
Anyhoo. The upshot of all this nonsense is that I had two cracking dreams (grommit) in the early hours. The first I shall turn into a proper story, so I won’t share in full, but it was a beautifully bleak gothic romance, with a love quadrangle (what’s the point of living in Cambridge if you can’t mention quads at will?), lots of blood, bats and quite possibly Kate Bush. Ok. No Kate. Unusually for me it was an intense first person pov dream — very filmic, if a bit Sleepy Hollow in places. Not up to Mcgrath’s standards. Yet.
The second was a slightly weirder one (because gore, witches and doomed romance are so eighties, darling). It was a observed test of sorts — where a group of anxious and pale students were challenged to smuggle cocaine out of a locked basement (itself set out as a maze of filing cabinets and shelves. Various solutions were proposed, including acetone, but my favourite was simply attempting to dissolve it in a jug of water (hence the lemsip reference). They all failed. And died. Catholic dreams.
