flying refrigerators

in the dream, I’m wearing sexy but conservative grown-up clothes–button up shirt, well-cut skirt, pumps, in dark and neutral colors–with the exception of the tights, which are crazily vertically striped in dark blue and white. As I walk up the stairs to the little upper cafe floor overlooking the rest of the cafe, a man eating (blond, not at all pretty, kind of big and Britishy) stops and stares at me. He introduces himself, asks me what I do. I proudly tell him I’m a theater director. He proudly tells me he’s an MP in the Labour Party, which surprises me because he totally looks like a Tory.

I sit down with my mother at the cafe table, and the play starts. It’s magnificent, I’m roiling in envy at its beauty. I remember nothing about it except that at some point, a refrigerator which is suspended from the ceiling, explodes by the force of another refrigerator swinging into it.

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