Watching Eastenders, as I do every weeknight apart from Wednesday, I noticed the sky grow grey and the spitting droplets of rain form on the window. Nothing new about rain in England, sure. Then, I paused to stare outside, the lightning flash lit up my street for a fraction of a second. Then the eerie silence before the thunder clap miles away, coming around the house like a natural surround sound from up above. Minutes away from the cliffhanger ending to my beloved soap, the satellite signal dropped, I felt like I was drifting back to 1999 having to revert to terrestrial coverage. The rain was heavy now, the heaviest I had heard it in many years, but if it was only going to affect the television signal, I had no major issues, for I would be watching very little for the rest of the evening. Coming into my room, I heard the rain pouring down up above my head and became aware that my internet connection was down. After several attempts to reconnect, I gave up and switched off all non essential electronic appliances and switched to good old fashioned pen & paper.

If someone with the medical or perhaps psychology background was asked to analyze my dreams, I wonder what they would find. I rarely remember then, yet some stick in my mind, if only for fleeting memorable moments. So take great pride to be welcomed into the nocturnal world of Teg’s recent dreams. On Sunday night, I finally drifted to asleep around 2am, perhaps later. The only moment of any major significance is a meeting. Out with my work colleagues, I am tapped on the shoulder by one of the manager’s and introduced to a Doctor. While I perhaps would have preferred it to be one of the fictional doctors from television or film. It was Dr. Rice. Yes, Condoleezza, or as she is commonly refereed to by George, as Condie. The appearance, was bizarre to say the least, but my reaction was strange. I was in awe of meeting a statesman (okay, women). I was speechless, from what I can remember and words failed me. She said something on the lines that it was a pleasure to meet me and I was doing a fantastic job! Not sure how much of a difference I truly make, but she obviously thought so. With the whisk of some CIA operatives, she was escorted out of the building and onward with her tour (of England?) Are my dreams trying to send me messages? Perhaps it is a campaign by the Bush administration to plant the seeds for the next race for the White House? Who knows? Even the latest search on Google News does not give any clues!

With the thought of seeing War of the Worlds, this coming weekend, at the back of my mind, my dreams on Monday night were more on the side of surreal. While the chances of me meeting Rice are very slim, they are not completely out of the question. From what I can remember, I am on board a ship, with some other nasty characters, but trying to escape. I did eventually escape, but heading into the jungle, I discover that I have weighed myself down with of all things, CDs. Then I realise that I am carrying the last archived version of my MP3 collection and therefore guarding it with my life. Rather pathetic, that this would be my chose as the final worldly possession I tend to keep. I did a poor job of protecting the discs, remembering the final image before my memory goes blank, is the shiny circles reflecting the sunlight, stretched across the green green grass. What does it mean? I know nothing. Thankfully, it has not been since my time at Sheffield Street, winter time, two years ago, when my house mate Nav would inadvertently push up the heating, to uncomfortable levels, that my dreams would fall into the outrageously freaky box. Perhaps I should try harder to remember my dreams? Any advice would be greatly appreciated, I will try anything, once!