Blue Kitten

The best thing (and the way I've been feeling the past couple of months, possibly the only good thing) about being pregnant* is the vivid and epic dreams the condition appears to confer upon the sufferer expectant mother-to-be.

So far I've dreamt the following:

1. A horde of elephants stampeded through the landscaped gardens of my colonial estate in Africa, but thankfully spared a number of stone urns planted with petunias.

2. I had a fight with Mark Valley out of Boston Legal on top of a couple of cable cars, in a scene which I later felt owed more than a little to Moonraker.

3. I was lynched by Cornish Nationalists, paraded through the streets of Mawnan Smith and then burnt at the stake, naked and tied by the tongue to Jamie Oliver, while the Owlman of Portreath recited ancient incantations as our flesh started to melt and combine. Although that was more of a premonition, really.

4. A mysterious faun showed me the entrance to a secret labyrinth, and said I could only enter it if I successfully completed three tasks. I wrote down everything he said, because it turned out it was handy practice for learning the future tense in Spanish.

No, wait, that was an actual film.

I won't go on, as my dad once told me that other people's dreams are the most boring thing imaginable**. Also I can't remember any more.


* Yes indeed. It turns out that a lifetime of reading Elle Decoration and lounging about in recklessly hot baths - often at the same time - has in no way diminished Mr BC's awesome virility.

** Although this didn't deter him from telling me this morning that he'd dreamt an Italian string quartet had turned up unexpectedly on his doorstep and were impressed to find him watching Il Commissario Montalbano*** on Rai Uno.

*** A sort of Sicilian version of Bergerac.