In the past I’ve shared with you some of the dreams I’ve had, dreams which included strange occurrences such as footballer Frank Lampard burning my house down and professional wrestler Jeff Jarrett painting my shed orange.
The dream I’m about to share with you is actually quite a personal one, and I have to admit that I did have second thoughts about putting pen to paper as it were, and while I have no idea what those other dreams meant it’s pretty obvious that I wouldn’t need a dream interpreter to find out what this one means.
This dream saw me and my brother Michael somehow travelling back in time. We found ourselves standing outside our old four bedroom house on Lynewood Road. We could tell instantly that it was April 1982, and the family were gathering to celebrate my brother Jon’s 21st birthday.
The situation we found ourselves in was simple yet complex, because eighteen months after these events happened, on December 13th, 1983, my Mother died of a heart attack.
We wondered what we should do. Should we go into the house? Should we try and tell someone what was going to happen in eighteen month’s time? Would anyone believe us?
I’m not even sure if the dream went on after that. If it did I don’t remember what happened next, and it’s probably best that I don’t know. It’s obvious that my life would have been different if those things hadn’t happened on that day in December 1983.
The writer part of my mind tells me that this would be an interesting story to tell, but the rest of me tells me that perhaps I should leave it at that. Maybe the other creative types in my family would like to take this task on, perhaps Michael’s daughter Amy. I’m not sure if I could, because the emotions would still run high, even though it’s been nearly forty years since my Mother passed away.
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