About coronavirus dreams: the other night I reckon I had one. Now it’s a well known fact that nobody except you and your psychoanalyst have the remotest interest in your dreams. Because other people’s dreams are boring, unless they’re gifted storytellers.
Nevertheless, in the interests of science (ha) I shall share my own coronavirus dream with you. No mercy. No, don’t try to stop me. It was a nice long dream but OK, I’ll be brief.
Act 1: Communicating in stock phrases
In an everyday setting, a big red-haired schoolboy asks how much Japanese I retain from my two years there. I repeat my story that I only ever mastered taxi Japanese, able to say stock phrases and blunder through short superficial conversations.
Act 2: Supporting the authorities
I wake up in a large modern house and go to court, where I am a character witness for Queen Victoria.
Act 3: Big black looming mysterious coronavirus
Behind a town which might be Wellington an immense, old, black, broken building looms. There’s a path behind the town where you can look at this building. The front door is way high, with no steps. I ask, “Who is big enough to get into the front door?” Someone says, “I think Grant Robertson might be big enough.” (For my non-Kiwi readers: Grant Robertson is our Finance Minister.)
What triggered this coronavirus dream?
Who knows? But before I went to sleep that night, I had learned two things that disturbed me.
- Details about one source of coronavirus transmission in New Zealand.
- Actual me-first, my-right-to-freely-spread-the-virus protests—in New Zealand!? What!?
My subconscious knew better than me how upsetting this news was. I myself am calm. On top.
Have you had a coronavirus dream? For once, I’d like to know.