Another one of those

I actually remember thinking “Oh, God! It’s going to be one of those again.”

I’d say, from that, that I knew it was a dream.

I don’t remember much of the early part.  I usually forget everything by the time I’ve woken up, but the most vivid parts often stay with you, don’t you think?

The early part was just like waking life.  I was busy.  Probably at work in some job I’ve held in the past, or an assemblage of them all; socialising, that kind of thing.

I remember standing at a bus stop on a busy road.  To the left was London – maybe fifty or sixty miles distant – and to the right was Dorset, South Devon.  I was trying to get to London.  I was waiting for the bus.

There was a concrete footbridge, like the ones at suburban railway stations, and I stood with a few people sheltering behind the parapet of that.  I remember there was a woman standing in front of me.  I didn’t know her.  Where do these fully-formed strangers come from?  You couldn’t really see the road from behind the parapet.  We just knew the bus would stop when it came.

After waiting a while, I needed the toilet.  I crossed the bridge to look for one.  There was a parked bus with a door open.  The bus was just standing there, so I climbed on-board. 

Sure enough, there was a toilet inside. I got myself settled and realised there was a another door wide-open beside me.  I could see the houses across the road. 

I decided to call the whole thing off, but the door closed and the bus began to move. 

It built up speed as it travelled along the main road, but eventually went into an underpass and slowed to negotiate a busy roundabout.   The bus was grid-locked on the inside lane of the roundabout, so I took my chances and jumped out onto the traffic-island.

That was where I realised I wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of underpants and thought to myself “Oh, God!  It’s going to be another one of those.”  Those dreams are a real pain.

Then, of course, there’s the problem of house keys, money, etc.

Well, being a in a dream, I checked and the keys were in my hand – money, wallet: not sure, but it all seemed ok.  Just no clothes.

The lights changed on the junction, and the jam of lorries and buses disappeared.  The underpass was empty. 

I crossed to the outer perimeter and found a passage out onto the street.

I suppose I must have walked a while – back to where I’d been earlier.   I reached a street with a mix of market stalls and café terraces.  Sitting at one of the tables was a group of people I knew.  They had their dog with them. 

When I’d been there earlier, the dog had been a small, lovable terrier with curly hair and a cute face.  I sat at the table – the friends may have lent me some clothes.   The dog now had the bulky head of a bull-mastiff.  Otherwise, it was the same.

I made some remark about the change and, as it came up to my knees, its face morphed back to that of a small, lovable terrier.

“You’re a form-shifter!” I told it, amazed.  “Clever boy!  You’ve shifted your form.”

They’re pretty-much the exact words I used.

The owners seemed proud of their hound, but not in the least surprised. 

I gave it a little hug and a stroke, then probably ordered a coffee.

That was it, really. 

Another one of “those” dreams, and a form-shifting dog.