dream diaries… 120

15/01/24

The warm, smoky, upper deck of a 190 Routemaster, heading toward Croydon. It is a Saturday morning in 1980. I am sat at the front, over the cab, and Brighton Rd, before and beneath, is heavily misted behind the steamed-up windows. I have wiped a penny-sized hole in the condensation and every so often I lean forward and peer through the tiny disc of glass to see how the journey progresses.

I am further removed from reality as I have headphones on. They are a huge pair of KOSS that I bought at a jumble sale in Charmouth during the Whitsun break of 1978. The khaki-colored headphones are connected to a blue and silver cassette Walkman that whirrs in my lap. The music fills my head. Oddly, I am listening to the debut album by Sammy: odd, because it was released in 1994.

The conductor appears at my side. He leans his back against the front window. I slide the headphones onto my shoulders. “Odeon, please.” The conductor is NB. He is the age he is now, but, somehow, we recognize each other, despite the fact that we will not meet for another twenty five years. “Well, well, well,” he says.

21/01/24

A second-hand jacket, if it fits, is a treasure. This one, a dirty tweed, the colours of wet heather and moss, with torn lining in the armpits and pockets, fits not at all. It hangs, misshapen and forlorn, from my shoulders and the tatty sleeves are rolled to the wrist. It is the sort of garment I would have worn in 1995, and have thought myself quite dapper. While wondering why I am wearing such a thing, I delve into one of the pockets and finger the gash that leads through to the rough inner tweed. Here are crumbs, a thumbnail, a wad of ancient gum, I assume. And, further into the hole, I discover a small concertina of paper. Extracted, unfolded, it is a beautifully handwritten note. The paper is slightly browned with age, and has a wonderful, musty odour.

…we sat around the flat, chatting about this and that; our words becoming melody on the gas fire’s whisper.

25/01/24

One rainy morning, I am stood, inexplicably, up to my ankles in the low tide water of Cullercoats bay, watching a woman make her way over the sand toward me. The North Sea creeps up the back of my jeans and my coat rises up in the wind. She stands at the shoreline, dancing back and forth to avoid the lapping waves.

You didn’t pay for your drinks last night, she shouts.

But, I don’t drink!

She pulls a length of till receipt paper from her pocket and, leaning out over the lapping water, thrusts it toward me. Here! The paper flags on the breeze and is soon soaked. The figures bleed to a blue smudge and the receipt wraps around her wrist. You need to pay for these drinks. D. Sears appears on the harbour wall. He struggles not to be blown into the water. He clutches his guitar to his chest. You should pay your bill!

I begin to feel awful. A vague memory of being in the Queens Head pub gathers, and my stomach hurts. I wonder if I have a hangover. The waves are now at the back of my knees and I stumble back onto the beach.

Later that day, on Front Street, I see the barmaid again. She is pushing an old fashioned pram – the kind not seen since the late 1970s. She waves and calls out to me across the street.

I checked the camera and actually all you drank was an apple juice.

Apple juice?

And you paid for that, too.

She laughs and bounces the perambulator into town.