I love my dreams and I have a lot of them. Recently, however, I’ve been waking in the night thinking “What a great dream, I’ll definitely not forget that one!” only to find that, come the morning, every last thread of it has disappeared from my mind. Ransacking my brain for even the smallest hook by which I could draw it back into my consciousness is completely unsuccessful. The dream has well and truly vanished.

So the other night, when I awoke, I managed to scrawl in my diary, in the pitch black, the words “Turnstiles, wartime and wotsits” and, by some miracle, it was still semi-legible in the morning. So here it is…

We were milling about on a quayside in WWI army uniforms, complete with pith helmets and Sam Brown belts, saying farewell to friends and loved ones, waiting to go through some turnstiles. On the other side of the turnstiles were ships which we were about to embark on in order to sail away to war.

However, to get through these turnstiles, we had to swipe a Wotsit crisp over a infrared light. And only certain shaped Wotsits would gain you entry. Too curly, no good. Too straight, no good. They had to have a perfect Wotsit shaped curve to activate the turnstiles.

I love dreams for their disregard for the conventions of storytelling and their celebration of the surreal.

I think I’ve been reading too much about WWI recently but honestly, I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate a Wotsit – could have been circa 1986!

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