As I was waiting to order a coffee at the work cafeteria this afternoon, Sarah came up to join the queue and told me she'd dreamed about me last night.
It was a good opener, because, whilst I have always liked her, our conversations have usually been in passing, and I would never have expected to play a part in her subconscious life. Apparently, I'd cooked a casserole and taken it round to her house, because I knew she was having her kitchen done.
Sarah's demeanour towards me as we approached the counter was as appreciative as if I had actually served up my Best Sausages in Red Wine Gravy with Added Carrots Casserole. I wondered if I'd cooked the potatoes in the casserole or separately on this occasion. She kindly overlooked the fact that, in order to be able to deliver the casserole to her doorstep at 6.30am, I'd have had to stalk her to find out where she lives.
Sarah pointed out that her kitchen isn't actually due to be done for another week or so.
Since that coffee, I've been wondering if I've ever appeared in anyone else's dream. If I have, I don't suppose for a moment that I cast myself in such a good light.
I like Sarah more than ever for having dreamed about me so kindly. I must ask her for her address sometime.
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