My dream

The bitch is back from her US trip. The conference was fine, especially because I flew thousands of miles for a mere 2 hours work. I stood on my hindlegs and played my appointed role (sceptic of certain placebo techniques). And then went straight to the airport where I found the oasis of a smoking bar, there to burn gaspers, sink margueritas and write in my journal. The Somalian taxidriver who took me into Denver was wearing a Burberry cap. I politely declined his altruistic offer to show me the town that night, pleading tiredness, but really it was because he asked whether Scotland was part of England. I hate that. On the other hand Jim, my taxidriver to the conference, was a gem. Realising he was the only non-work person I'd speak to that day, I started asking him about Denver and politics, and he turned out to be the most interesting and well-informed person I spoke to. I booked him to take me to the airport too.

Just had one of those horrible nightmares which keep starting and stopping and repeating themselves. I was at a weekend house party with R at the house of the couple who sat next to me on the plane, to whom I barely spoke. Like some twisty reality show, we were to be scored for manners, courtesy, gentility and being good guests. First we would be scored by the named people, then there'd also be a anonymous scoring. The rather brittle wife had mentioned that her only problem is with messiness, then given me of all people her immaculate bedroom. The dream's fragmented and repeated, but amongst my houseguest crimes were to break her bed and an electric baby bottle (don't ask me), unintentionally strew rubbish everywhere, and to fart in her face by accident. In the dream I keep trying to do better on the tidying up but can only move at tortoise pace and keep forgetting what I'm doing before I finish the task. It was real enough that in my dream I'm considering differential self-diagnoses of catatonic depression, Parkinson's or myaesthenia gravis for these symptoms. I woke in one of my more horrid perimenopausal nightsweats with the sheets wringing.

The odd thing is that the man of the couple on the plane had spoken to me about my dreaming as we 'deplaned' in Glasgow. He'd asked me about the book I was reading, and whether it had given me bad dreams because I was 'panic-breathing' as I slept. The book was about Amazonian hallucinogenic brews that induce serpentine images and ubiquitous serpents in creation myths, and whether these might be speaking directly to the universal brain about the double helix, DNA. He said he hadn't been sure whether to wake me up, but had been concerned I was distressed. And then curiously he came back tonight in a distressful dream.

That's about all I can write here.

It's nice to be home and awake despite the hour, and tomorrow I get the kids back for the G8 weekend. Nini had written me an illustrated note before I left with a list of pointers. 'Get up, get on plane, give talk, get on plane to San Diego, get catsitter. Bring back books, a nautilus shell.' I'd reassured her the cat was taken care of before I left, and am relieved I even tracked down the nautilus shell she requested. Now she may not kick my butt as hard as usual. For an 8 year old, she's a tough cookie.