Some decades are better than others...

Some days are better than others.  Some months are better than others.  Some years…some decades…  Yeah, you get the picture. 

It’s easy to get lost in the past, isn’t it?  You start by looking at old pictures and, hey, weren’t you so young and pretty?  And, oh, didn’t you have a life back then – a job, a vision, a purpose; friends, family, home.  Weren’t you so in love – with someone, with life, with yourself?  And wasn’t the future so bright? 

And what happened, in those years that followed?  What turned the rainbow monochrome?  What killed the magic stone-dead?  Was it the first grey hair or the first deal that went west?  The dimming of eyes or the dilution of love?  Was there a definite point where it turned sour?  Can you look back and see exactly that fork in the road where you made the big mistake, where you chose this way over that, or did it just float over you imperceptibly, like mist, until one day you woke up and the fog was so thick that you couldn’t even bite the hand in front of your face?

Isn’t it so damned unfair the way it never quite worked out the way you planned? 

Ah, it’s so easy to get snaggled up in regret, in self-blame, in else-one blame, in disappointment and despair, isn’t it?  You had your chance, you blew it and life will never be so rosy again.  You’re washed up, old, tired, so bloody tired, and doesn’t the mirror delight in showing you how just plain nasty time can be? 

Where did those days, weeks, months, years, decades go?  It only seems a blink ago that you were standing, fresh–faced and hopeful at the prow of adulthood, peering into a future in which you could be anyone, do anything, go anywhere.  And now?  Now the walls crowd in around you. Time chews your face, biting it into furrows, spitting out lines.

Many of us have a golden time, a period, however fleeting, in which life felt good, the fates seemed kind.  Or do we?  Isn’t it all just hindsight?  When I look through my photo albums at the pictures taken in my twenties, it looks like heaven.  And, yes, it was a magical time.  Looking back, I was one lucky bitch – I had the looks, the job, the flat, the friends, the fun.  I knew what I wanted (work-wise), I went after it and I got it.  I ticked off my goals one by one – first published feature, first feature in a broadsheet; first feature in a glossy woman’s mag; first feature in a tabloid; first column; first book; first TV appearance; first …oh, you get the idea.  My love life was a shambles but hey, I had great work and fabulous friends and, as the song says, two out of three ain’t bad. 

But you can’t turn back time, no matter how hard you wish you might.  The past is sliding by, slippery like water – and, really, there is no past, it’s just memory.  There is only now and what we choose to do with that now.  And one can easily sit and drown oneself in the past, in that lovely lilac wine of Lethe that, if you drink enough, pulls you into a soft soporific befuddlement.  

Or, alternatively, you can look back with love and a shrug, and then tug yourself into the here and now, gird your loins and all that malarkey and make of it something new. 

Because if you don’t…if you can’t let go of the past, it will strangle you and squeeze out every last fragment of possible happiness.  Cos time’s just a right bastard like that.  J

The Pretender...

Last night I dreamed I was at an old funfair.  Adrian said, 'This way' and I realised we were climbing up the wooden tracks of the runaway train ride. 'Is this a good idea?' I thought, but didn't say. 'The bends are blind and what if a train comes down?'  But the tracks were old and worn.  And no train came and we came to a break in the track, an opening out, and people looked at us as if we were mad and someone said, 'And why on earth would you do that?' And I shook my head and shrugged and silently agreed.

And the last few weeks, I have had this song running through my head which I can't stop. In fact, I got up even earlier than usual this morning to steal James' headphones so I could listen to it, to see if it is how I remember. But seems even his headphones don't work in my PC now. You gotta laugh, huh?  You gotta laugh.

Anyhow, you can hear it even if I can't. Can't you?  :-)

Words drive me crazy...literally

Words by Eighty-3 at deviantart

Words. They drive me crazy. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do, no matter how careful and precise you try to be, they slide away; they do their own thing.  Because what you can’t ever control is how another person will read them, will interpret them.  It’s why emoticons are so important in social media, on forums.  End it with a J  and it’s all okay (or not).  But, really, emoticons aren’t enough.  You can’t express tone when you write.  Sometimes I think we need to write as if we were writing novels… adding in the adverbs (against all advice to the contrary) *smiling wanly*. Do you know what I mean? *small sad voice pleadingly, brow furrowed*  

Music is purer, not so open to misinterpretation. *relatively certain tone* Or is it? *frowns* The listener can so easily pull out one lyric rather than another; what one person perceives as a positive note will be seen by another as a negation. It’s why one song can mean a myriad different things to each and every person who listens to it. 

What we really need is a way to beam emotion and intent straight to other people.  That can be done on a one-on-one basis, if both parties are attuned or understand other dimensional working (though I am not always entirely sure about that either nowadays *sad sigh again*). But expressing one's intent, one's feeling, to a mass audience isn't possible or *pause, ponders* probably desirable, come to think of it. Maybe other people need to put their own interpretations on things. Maybe there are reasons for misunderstandings, for missed communications?  Maybe the misunderstandings are there as mirrors? *really don't know, just stabbing in the dark here*. Maybe they help us grow?  And growing is good, right? *asking, not remotely telling* 

Anyhow *with small, not irritated, just sad, sigh; in resigned tone*. I thought I’d been gone long enough, been down deep enough. I thought I was done with the underworld for just a little while. *long pause while looks out of window at soft rain falling, mist over the valley, leaves turning yellow, ochre and copper, breathing consciously, feeling deep yet strangely good pain in heart*.

I tried being back in the world, tried to smile and talk and be normal but it felt like I was outside myself, watching a puppet moving jerkily, on strings. I really had nothing to say; I have nothing to say. Because, see/hear/feel, right now, I'm only half-cooked (or half-baked, yeah, yeah, I'll say it so you don't have to *smile, yes really, smile*). And that’s okay, really it is…*nods, trying to convince self as much as anyone else*.

This morning the path was slippery, slick. I felt like I could so easily fall.  The big field was no longer empty; cows stood watching.  The path was strewn with shit. Go figure *rueful smile*. A friend said she’d dreamed of me, twice…with shelves full of dust.  And so I took the books that had been gathering dust and started to read.  And the synchronicities started crashing in again, one after another, again and again and again and again. Just too too much. *awe, wonder, fear, trepidation, uncertain to the core*.  What the shit is going on? I don’t understand.

Whatever it is or isn’t, I realised, *big deep sigh* that I had come back too soon.  I have more I have to do.  Back to the crucible I go.  Honestly, don’t worry – it’s okay.  It is what it is. Byss; abyss. 

What do you pray for?

I don't usually feature guest posts but today I'm making an exception.  When I was in Israel I met Susie Newday, a Tel Aviv based blogger.  I'd talked to Susie a bit on Twitter before we went out and I'd read her blog. Of course I loved it - what wasn't to love?  It's called New Day, New Lesson and the strap line runs: life hands you the lessons, you decide what to learn.

She is another seeker - she looks for messages.  However, I think she is a more optimistic, more open-hearted soul than I... 
I love her energy, her enthusiasm, her whole-hearted approach to life. She loves fully and totally.  She seeks the best in people; she looks for good and, hey, she finds it.  A lesson there, no? 
She met us at the airport with balloons.  She baked us huge heart-shaped cookies with our names iced on them.  She bartered for me in the souks and kept pressing little gifts on me, generosity incarnate. 

So, I would like to share her with you.  And here - to get an idea of where she's coming from - is a post she wrote for this blog.  If you like it, I'd suggest you make her acquaintance more fully - over at her place....


What do I pray for? by Susie Newday
I do quite a lot of daydreaming. Often I just let myself drift and dream about how life could be if the world was more perfect.
I am not going to do a "beauty queen" and ask for world peace because dreaming or not, I have a trace of realist in my character.

So what do I dream of for the world?

I dream of a place where people are fulfilled and their jobs are not work because they are living and working their passion.

I dream of a world where people see the uniqueness in each other and where no one feels they are any better than anyone else, just different and unique.

I dream of a world of unbridled curiosity where people sit and listen to others without interrupting.

I dream of a place of joy and emotion where people aren't afraid to share, hug and be vulnerable.

I dream of a world governed by mutual respect. We don't all have to agree, but that doesn't mean we can't let others have their own opinions and points of view. Live and let live.

I dream of a world of kindness where people aren't afraid to talk to strangers and where people go out of the way to help others.

Are all these dreams as far fetched as world peace seems right now? Maybe and maybe not. What I do feel is that every single person who makes a shift in their thoughts and actions is taking a huge leap for mankind,

What do you dream for this world of ours? Do you think we can make our dreams come true? I would like to hope so.

Ras Mbisi - go for it!

Sometimes you have to let the winds of Fate blow you, like dandelion seeds.  Sometimes Fate gives you no choice – it knows where you’re going. I’m a great believer in trying to live lightly; trying to get with the Tao; practicing wu wei. My mother always said that if you push things too hard, you can force them to happen, but at a price.  You can exert your will but it may backfire.  It’s the difference between Magic and Mysticism (if you want to be esoteric about it).

But sometimes… Maybe.  If you know – if you really know – what you want (and that it is the right thing), then maybe you have to fight, to give it all you’ve got.  What do you think?  I do admire people who get this idea, this vision, and then just pursue it, hell for leather.  Like Michelle.  

I met Michelle on Twitter (yes, another one) – thanks to Sam Baker (who, incidentally, always goes for it 100% - check out her new book).  Anyhow, here’s an abbreviated version of Michelle’s story – of how she gave up life in cold boring Ramsgate and bought a beach in Tanzania!

It all started in 2005 on a cold winter’s day.  The rain was lashing down and Michelle was idly browsing the web while her two young daughters watched TV.  She stumbled upon a website called my-beach.com, listing beaches and properties for sale around Tanzania and within a few clicks, she had started hatching a plan.  By the time her husband Jon came home from work, the idea for Ras Mbisi, an eco-lodge on a stretch of pristine sand, had formed.

With a feeling of wild impetuousness, they booked a flight to Dar es Salaam and they found “their” beach.  ‘It was love at first sight,’ recalls Michelle.  ‘We just looked at each other and said, “God, it’s gorgeous.”  There was pure white sand – that actually squeaked when you walked on it.  Clear blue sea and no neighbours for miles either way.’  It may have been beautiful but there was no accommodation other than ‘a subsiding, bat, rat and hornet-infested pit’ of a house.  If they wanted to make a go of it, they would have to start from scratch.

They sold up their house and hawked nearly all their worldly belongings.  Money was going to be incredibly tight and so everything that wasn’t totally essential, had to go.  Jon even auctioned his vast LP collection on eBay. ‘The proceeds bought us a Land Rover,’ he says ruefully. 

They left the UK on a rainy August afternoon in 2006 and arrived in Tanzania to bright morning sunshine. ‘We just ran to the sea and plunged in,’ says Michelle.  ‘The girls were so excited – it was a huge adventure.’  But reality quickly kicked in.  The house on the beach was uninhabitable and for three months the Vickers had to rent a run-down cottage 18 kilometres away down a pot-holed road while they rebuilt it. 

They dug their own bore hole (and learned how to use the various pumps required), constructed a solar system and built a biomass gasifier (running on waste) to power the Lodge as there is no mains power in this part of the island.  They employed over forty local people to build the lodge (which is all made from sustainable cocowood from the plantations that back onto the beach).  Most of them were then retrained as cooks, waiters and gardeners for the Lodge.  Digging and planting a large vegetable garden was a must as part of Michelle’s dream was to provide the most delicious, fresh, seasonal food possible.  Everything had to be local and eco-friendly – even the soap is made locally from virgin coconut oil.

To cut a very long story very short, Jon and Michelle finally saw their vision become reality: nine open-tented thatched bandas (simple yet sophisticated rooms with balconies and ensuite bathrooms) sitting just metres from the beach, looking out over the aquamarine water.  They are cleverly planned to benefit from the cooling sea breeze as does the restaurant and raised sundowner bar which overlooks both the beach and the swimming pool. 

Food is cooked simply using a combination of traditional Swahili recipes with Middle Eastern and Asian flavours (reflecting the old trade routes).  The menu changes daily, depending on what the local fishermen catch or what Michelle and Jon have found at market.  Vegetables often come from their own garden and your breakfast egg will have been laid by one of the Vickers’ own pampered hens. Fresh fruit literally falls from the trees and, given the Lodge backs onto a coconut plantation, it’s small surprise that the exotic nut features heavily.

When guests aren’t eating, they can be as active or leisurely as they desire.  You could swim with the Whale sharks or watch the Humpbacks make their way past during their biannual migration.  Or visit one of the uninhabited offshore islands for a fish barbecue and snorkel one of the many reefs. 

Michelle’s next project is to add a small spa offering a simple menu of massages and scrubs, based around the local coconut oil.  No overegged ‘rituals’ or gimmicks – just good bodywork to relax guests into ‘swahili time’.  There are still so many things I want to do but it all takes time,’ says Michelle.  ‘We’ve learnt to walk; running comes next.’

Fancy a serious chillout break? It's actually damn good value: check it out.   www.mafiaislandtz.com  Or read the blog (with delicious recipes and more pics). I tell you, I am SO going there when funds allow. 

NOTE TO EDITORS: This is a much abbreviated version of a longer lifestyle feature I wrote.  If any mags or papers fancy the whole thing (2K words), let me know.

Me, David Byrne, fairies, bondage and dreams

Lordy, I haven’t done a meme in positively years. I am so rubbish at keeping up with everyone’s blogs that nobody tags me anymore. But Clare is new to blogging and I thought it would be nice to introduce her to all you lot...check out her blog Seasider in the City and say hello from me.  I bet she’ll be much more polite than I am.

Her meme is ‘7 things you never knew about me.’ At first I thought no – I’ve splurged so much for so long that you probably already know WAY too much about my life...apart from all the parts I can’t talk about of course. ;)

But I’ve been playing memory lane quite a bit lately so maybe there are a few odd snippets...

taken from http://thesparklingmartins.blogspot.com/

1. When I was seven I didn’t just believe in fairies living in the old wall at the end of the garden – I knew they were there.

2. I was crap at maths – apart from equations. I have always been fascinated by quantum physics and I just wish I had a better brain for science.

3. When I was seventeen I dreamed I met a guy at a party. That weekend the dream came true and we both went white with shock - he had had exactly the same dream. I screwed it up big time; he killed himself. Not sure I’ve ever quite got over that.

4. When I was a student in Manchester I used to walk out in the middle of the night in the dodgiest areas of town. I thought I’d leave it up to Fate if I lived or died.  I guess Fate hasn't done with me yet. 

5. I got into journalism through a chance meeting with a photographer at the opening night of a bondage club. 

6. When I interviewed David Byrne of Talking Heads I could barely get two words out of him. So I asked him if it was true that... [no..on second thoughts, no.  For a moment there I really hadn't learned my lesson.  Famous people really DO google themselves and anyhow, it's his business]  Needlesstosay, the interview ended quite quickly after that.  I was crap at interviewing famous people.  Phil Collins spent an hour trying desperately to confess that he was splitting up from one of his wives (I forget which).  I blithely ignored every single hint and kept brightly congratulating him on being one of the few rock stars to stay happily married.  Doh.

7. I don’t really believe my mother has reincarnated in the Soul Puppy. At least, I don’t think she has. But then again... :)


I’m not going to tag anyone by name – I figure if you fancy it, just go for it!


btw, have shamelessly nicked that lovely picture of building a fairy house from The Sparkling Martins blog - came across it purely by chance while googling for fairy pics...it's really interesting - about how they "non-school" their children.  I once asked James if he'd like to be 'home' schooled and he just snorted.  I took that as a 'no' and a deep reflection on my teaching abilities.  But I think I could do non-schooling....  :)  Now I just have to convince him. 

btw2, while googling pictures of David Byrne, I came across his Journal - absolutely fascinating entry about people and computers, life merging into machines...click on the link to take you there. 

In which Adrian talks to the beyond...

Okay, so I’m propped up in bed, with books and notebooks spread around me; with the SP curled up against my hip and Adrian comes into the bedroom. He says that he had the weirdest dream. Given that Adrian never dreams and, if he does, it's only ever about beer, my ears prick up. If he's remembered it, it has to be bloody weird. 

He says he dreamed he was in a taxi and that my mother kept phoning him on his mobile. My dead mother.
‘It was so strange because I knew she was dead,’
‘Oh my God. What did she say? Was she okay?’
‘I can’t remember really.’
‘Did you ask her if she wanted to say anything to me?
‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’
‘Did you ask where she was?’
‘No.’ He shrugs.

Oh FFS. He’s got a hot line to my dead mother and he doesn’t ask the most basic questions?

‘Well how did she sound?’
‘Quiet. Frail. The usual. As she did really. Then at the end she said, ‘I have to go now’.

Jeez. What a waste. And why the heck didn’t she talk to me? Why didn’t she phone me?

‘It was just a dream. Probably because we’d been talking about her yesterday.’

Yeah right.

‘Look, don’t start expecting me to take dictation from your mother in dreams, okay? ‘

I look a bit sheepish... I had been on the verge of pushing a tape recorder on him.

‘Well, at least if you believe that was her, you won't still think she's reincarnated in the SP, will you?’

I stroke his silky head.  ‘I dunno.’ (Keeping my fingers firmly crossed under the covers).

Weirdly I haven’t been dreaming much lately. All my life my nights have teemed with dreams. I have rows of notebooks with them all written out in long boring detail; endless files on the PC; sketchbooks full of images from them. Now, nothing. Maybe the action has shifted to my waking life instead. Maybe my poor subconscious doesn’t need to shout anymore because I’m finally listening with both ears wide open?

I pluck a rune. Othila. Separation.

“This is the time of separating paths. Old skins must be shed, outmoded relationships discarded. Othila is the rune of radical severance.”

Nooooo. That sounds harsh.  I can’t bear it. 
“The proper action here is submission and, quite probably, retreat – knowing how and when to retreat and possessing the firmness of will to carry it out.”

I decide I have to submit to it. You can’t, mustn’t force things. What will be, will be. I have to trust it’s for the best. Let go, let go. Breathe. Breathe. Centre. Wu wei.

Later, sitting at my PC, I feel something shift. My hand slides into the rune bag once more.  And pull out...
Laguz. Flow. 

“Laguz fulfils our need to immerse ourselves in the experience of living without having to evaluate or understand. This rune often signals for a time of cleansing: for revaluing, reorganising, realigning. A Rune of deep knowing, Laguz may call you to study spiritual matters in readiness for self-transformation.”

- No shit.

“Success now lies in contacting your intuitive knowing, in attuning to your own rhythms. A rune of the self relating rightly to the Self, Laguz signifies what the alchemists called the conjunctio, or sacred marriage. In fairy tales, it is the end where the hero and heroine live happily ever after.”

- Shit!

I mean, bring it on..... :)

What's your bag?

Handbags. No, not pitching for a fight, just talking about the common or garden handbag (or pocketbook or purse for my North American readers).

Kate tagged me to divulge what is in my handbag and I agreed because I think it’s more than a random set of ‘things’ – a woman’s bag is a mirror of her personality.

A friend of mine looks askance at my bag. Hers is small – immaculate on the outside, pristine on the inside. In it she keeps a (clean, pressed) hankie, a purse, a small diary and her reading glasses. That’s it. I say ‘friend’ but if I’m honest we’ll never be ‘real’ close tell-it-all over several bottles of wine friends because we are just too different. Her life is neat, compartmentalised, ordered. Mine, on the other hand, lurches from chaos to calamity. She's not the kind of friend who would understand that you're feeling down/overwhelmed/teary/a bit bonkers. She'd look puzzled and suggest you need more sleep or a bout of gardening.

My dear late (and hugely lamented) friend Sarah Dening always said that to dream of a handbag was to dream about your identity, what defines you as a woman. If you dream of a handbag she suggests you ask yourself these questions:
• Has a change of circumstances undermined my sense of identity?
• Am I afraid of losing my worth as a woman?
• Am I trying to model myself on someone else?

Interesting questions, one and all (and, if I'm honest, it's probably a YES to all three).  Let’s see what my handbag and its contents reveals about me and my life (both outer and inner).

My bag is soft brown leather with a vivid pink lining. It was a present from my mother when she was very ill, not long before she died and so it is hugely precious. It came from a little shop just down the road and is a very non-prententious, very non-designer bag. It's always been slouchy but once it was relatively smart. Now the leather is scuffed, the lining is torn...it’s been well-used and has a few years’ use left in it yet. So it feels very much a symbol for how I feel as a middle-aged, madly juggling, generally worn out, slumped in a corner woman.

In it, you will find right now:
• A bright pink Prada purse. Real Prada. Bought for me by my dear friend Jane who knows that the only time I get the real thing is when she buys it for me. ‘Every woman needs a bit of Prada’ she said. I love it but never quite feel it’s ‘me’.
• An iPod. My son’s. Can’t use it, haven’t a clue. Makes me feel stupid every time I look at it.
• My Moleskine notebook. Goes everywhere with me. I find inspiration hits, not when I’m sitting at my desk but everywhere else. My memory is shot so I carry it round with me.
• Several pens. I live in mortal terror of not having a writing implement.
• Diary. Never look at it but hey, it’s there.
• A book, if not two. At the moment it’s a YA novel called Shiver.
• A small torch. We still can’t get into The Bonkers House by the front door (there be monsters) so we have to navigate steep and uneven and winding steps up into the garden. A torch avoids (hopefully) broken legs.
• Glasses case. Never has glasses in it.
• Sunglasses. Ray Bans (Wayfarer Dekko) I bought at Miami airport over twenty years ago. Happy memories of a wonderful press trip to Grand Bahama.
• Memory stick.
• Rescue remedy; arnica; lip salve
• Hand cream (La Compagnie de Provences, lavender)
• Fingerless mittens, in nubbly blue wool, knitted by Pipany
• Several small grey model soldiers. Used to decorate a cake for James back in November and now bivvied in my mobile phone pocket. Note: mobile phone NOT in bag. Never is. Never know where it is.
• Gum shield (spare for James)
• Tampons in metal container and loose
• Jo Malone Lime Basil and Mandarin cologne. Cheers me up.
• A scrunchie. Why? No idea.
• Several shopping lists, receipts, business cards, flyers
• A layer of dust.

That’s it. What does it say about me? I guess that I’m just another working mother: a bit disorganised, a bit haphazard; trying hard to be prepared for all eventualities (so maybe a bit anxious); phobic of phones; desperately wanting to write and be creative; too lazy to have a turnout; not particularly vain (note the lack of makeup and mirror) or is that just plain given up?

So, over to you. What is in your handbag? And (if you fancy) what do you think it says about you?

I reckon if you like this one, just go for it. But, in the spirit of tagging, I would love to know the innards of the bags of:

Frances
Crystal Jigsaw
Milla
Fire Byrd
EnglishMum
DulwichDivorcee

One about dreams

Dreams and portents. Dreams as portents. Last night I had the most horrific nightmares - of demon baby heads in boxes; of malevolent houses; of shit-smothered lavatories. Then again, like UPL, I often dream of horses – beautiful horses that I ride perfectly, seamlessly, like a centaur (exactly how I don’t ride in waking life). I’m forever revisiting old houses and those I’ve never been to. I’ve met Christ in a helicopter and flown with demons over urban parks. Sometimes it seems as I spend my entire nights dreaming – and half of my waking hours trying to puzzle out what they’re saying.
I’ve been intrigued by dreams all my life. The first one I remember was when I was about three. My mother had taken me to see the dinosaurs in Crystal Palace and, she swears, at the time I seemed quite sanguine about them. But that night I dreamed of a brontosaurus charging down our suburban garden and breaking in through the French doors. After that they turned really nasty – a black creature (half cat-half monster) stalked me throughout my childhood, my teens and my twenties. There would come a moment in the dream when I would realise, with horror, that the creature was there, waiting in the shadows, and that any moment it would fly at me, sinking its teeth in my wrist.
Sometimes, of course, dreams are just junk, the detritus of the day, anxieties and fears tumbling out. But some dreams, I know, have meaning. They are the big dreams, the important ones. I truly believe that dreams are the way our unconscious speaks to us.

There are many ways of working with dreams but I tend to paint mine. One of these days I will figure out how to get some of my images up on here so you can have a good laugh or shudder – they are a bit weird! I can’t scan them as they are usually huge. They may be a literal picture of what happened in the dream or they may be more of an expression of the mood of the dream through shape and colour.

The other thing I like to do is to “dream the dream on”, otherwise known as “active imagination”. If the dream ends on an uncertain or disconcerting note, you simply try continuing it in waking time. Imagine your dream in all its detail, not just visually but with all your senses, hearing the sounds, accessing the feeling in your body. There might be a character in the dream you want to question. If so simply ask the character if it would like to talk to you and then wait for the answer. Be patient: you have to wait for the answer and not rush to put something in. You will get a sense of when it's coming and it won't just be something your conscious mind is making up.

Generally the people or creatures you meet in dreams will tend to be different aspects of yourself, often those repressed in waking life. There are no hard and fast rules but here are a few that might have cropped up for some of you.

THE SHADOW: a dream character which normally manifests as someone of the same sex as yourself. Jung said it represents all the things about ourselves that we find unacceptable and so try to repress. Hence, if anger wasn't acceptable in your family as you grew up your shadow might appear as an angry or violent man or woman. If you can talk to your shadow and get on good terms, it will allow you to express your anger appropriately without flying off the handle. Ruthlessness is a common shadow for women because lots of little girls aren't allowed to be ruthless.
THE QUEEN: usually represents for a woman her own sovereignty and power. For a man it tends to represent his ability to deal with the feminine side of his nature.
ROCK STARS AND FILM STARS: generally represent the hero, excitement, creativity. Dreaming about a star means you want to project the part of you that craves attention and the centre-stage.
BABIES: Represent new life of all kinds. These dreams often come when you need to develop other sides of yourself - often when children have grown up and left home….
GOING TO THE LOO IN PUBLIC: Urinating in public usually represents spontaneous self-expression while defecating generally represents your creativity. Either dream usually means you haven't found your true way of expressing yourself.
BEING NAKED IN THE STREET: classically means a fear of revealing who you really are. Normally it will suggest that you need to reveal more of your true personality.
BEING CHASED: Usually whatever or whoever is chasing you is a part of yourself that wants to make contact with you. Animals can represent your instinctual nature - you may be leading too cerebral a life.
KILLING SOMEONE: A warning that you’ve tried to disown or failed to develop an important part of your own nature. Often this part of you contains your power, your strength – something you deny.

Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. Back in the real world, Adrian is in Lithuania. James is at school. I moved the wheelbarrow and the watering can and so the woodpecker has given up in disgust and gone back up the combe to hammer at trees (a far more suitable diet). I have finished the first draft of my ghosted book (hurrah!) and might even go to aerobics this morning. Thanks to everyone for your comments – I am continuing to be stern and steely to all concerned with the house (though so far they continue to ignore me totally!).

Aaaghh, all my pictures are on my laptop - so this will have to go picture-less for now.....imagine your own dream here!