I've had to restrict myself to reading John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things during daylight hours because the Crooked Man was crawling creepily into my dreams. Normally books do not affect my nightmares, but this one is about the fairytale creatures that populate my subconscious sneaking from the books of a young boy and leaching into his already uncomfortable reality.
The Hurler and I were discussing dreams last night (over hot chilli and bottles of Stella, lest you think we're big girl's blouses*) and he reckons he's as suggestible as I am. He followed the conversation up with a stunning example this morning - having spent a good two minutes talking about Batman before we'd eaten dinner, he then dreamt that we were Batman (that's right, both of us) and we were running around buildings in the Docklands as a fundraiser to buy some new bat gear.
For once I'd like my subconscious to suggest that I might be a steel-underpantsed superhero in my dreams, rather than a hapless anti-heroine who is about to have her face eaten by zebra-striped zombie vampires.
*Though we did later go for a stroll down to the river with the Tall One to watch the sun set over the city and eat ice creams.
The Hurler and I were discussing dreams last night (over hot chilli and bottles of Stella, lest you think we're big girl's blouses*) and he reckons he's as suggestible as I am. He followed the conversation up with a stunning example this morning - having spent a good two minutes talking about Batman before we'd eaten dinner, he then dreamt that we were Batman (that's right, both of us) and we were running around buildings in the Docklands as a fundraiser to buy some new bat gear.
For once I'd like my subconscious to suggest that I might be a steel-underpantsed superhero in my dreams, rather than a hapless anti-heroine who is about to have her face eaten by zebra-striped zombie vampires.
*Though we did later go for a stroll down to the river with the Tall One to watch the sun set over the city and eat ice creams.
