The Secret Life of a Freelancer

Now I've been working from home, both on a freelance and work from home basis for a while now. And while there were some lessons I knew were headed my way (notably those to do with hiding the TV remote & keeping away from 'fridge gazing' during work hours) there are other observations I've made and lessons I've learned along the way that have surprised me. Fellow work from homers will no doubt recognise some, if not all of these, and if they don't perhaps it's just me being weird. Either ways I've written them down, and I hereby share them with you, you lucky, lucky thing.  

I'm in there somewhere.... I promise.

1. The Neighbours
As the person that is often in during the day, you become the receptacle for all kinds of packages being delivered to your neighbours who are out working their 9-5. From chocolates (I could tell by sniffing the box), to gorgeous bouquets of flowers that to all intents and purposes ought to be yours really, to entire bleedin' sets of furniture ordered off Amazon (seriously, you can order a whole table and chairs suite off AMAZON? And then not even be in to take delivery of it? Pleaaaaase bitch!), meaning your working from home neighbour can become your very best friend, or worst enemy depending on how you play it. Fortunately I never snaffled those chocolates, nor did I bedeck my apartment with nefariously obtained blooms, and consequently my neighbours owe me one if not several.... A handy situation for when you're cartwheeling into your apartment block, loudly & perhaps more than a little tipsy at 11.30pm on a school night, following a trip to the pub banishing cabin fever (see point 4) with your fellow freelancers. 


2. The school holidays

Yup. That's me

Now, previously as a traditional 9-5er, I saw the school holidays as some kind of manna from heaven. Hurrah hurray, calloo callay! No more grotty school kids clogging up the bus aisles with their MAHOOSIVE bags and penchant for standing right by the stairs, thereby ensuring no one can ascend or descend without a battle through the afore mentioned MAHOOSIVE bags. School holidays are AWESOME I thought!! Now, working from home? Not so much with the celebration of the holidays, for now I rejoice for peace and quiet of term time. And I'm pleased to say now that teaching is back in progress I will no longer feel the urge to sniper style supersoak the squealing, squawking urchins, freewheeling round my estate at great volume under my living room window all day long. A grumpy old woman? Yes. But I'm shit hot with a super soaker so don't mess with me peace & quiet, I've got spreadsheets to tidy!

3. The 'Look'
Fellow work from homers will know 'the look'. It's that look we get when we say we work from home, and the 9-5ers glance at you with a strange mixture of resentment and disgust. “Lucky you” they say, “wouldn't it be nice to be able to sit around in my pyjamas all day, watching TV & eating biscuits”. All the while, giving you THAT look. Well 9-5er, I'm very sorry that your office doesn't have enough biscuits to stifle your burning resentment, but it's not all about biscuits and PJs I'll have you know! For let me take you on to the concept of Cabin Fever.

4. Cabin Fever

Make his a Grande, Quad, Nonfat,
One-Pump, No-Whip, Mocha...
with sprinkles obvs

You lot, you think our life is all mocha choca macchiatos with soy milk foam and sprinkles. It is, I think you assume, only the thrum of beanie hat wearing, mac keyboard bashing freelancers that keeps our local, organically sourced coffee shop alive. But the reality is far different. Although I obviously get out and about seeing my customers and suchlike, but most of the time it's just me, sat in these 4 walls, looking out the same windows, with very no one to chat to face to face (no beanie wearers in sight – if only cos I can't stand the smell of coffee). And frankly, that gets me more than a little wild eyed at the best of times. You 9-5ers have your water cooler chit chat, your “ooh did you see Bake Off last night?”, your “what did you get up to at the weekend?”. I have none of that. I have my plants and my own reflection to natter to to, and when things get VERY desperate, the staff behind the till at Sainsburys. Yes it's me holding up that queue, sorry, but even us work from homers need a bit of human contact every now and then, don't resent my natter please, cos it's either that or I'll go wild in the aisles with a butternut squash and no one wants that. Not least Sainsburys. So basically it's not all sunshine, roses, PJs and biscuits in this here world of working from home, though speaking of which....

 5. The biscuits
Rejoice with me my fellow freelancers! Let us celebrate our little lonely existence, squirreling away at our work in flats, houses and rented spaces the country over. For we are no longer ruled by the tyranny that is the office biscuit tin! No more stale custard creams for me, no siree! No more soggy shortbread rounds left til the very last, as for that pink wafer number, well that can Get To F*ck. I've got my own biscuit tastes (dark chocolate digestive natch) and I aint afraid to indulge it. No one's nicking my biccies leaving me the literal crumbs. Well, except my mum, but she asks nicely so that's fair enough.

6. The PJs
Ok ok, technically we could work in our PJs. I mean, anyone could really, but granted you 9-5ers might get an odd look on the tube (then again, maybe not, I once saw someone dressed as a banana on the rush hour tube and no one batted an eyelid. London eh?). But it is a much alleged complaint, us work from homers are sat lazing around in our pants while you office workers are struggling through your day, wearing y'know clothes. Well, in my experience, I've found that PJs do not a solid of day of work make. There's something ever so 'sleep over' about it. Something of the hungover Sunday morning watching T4, equipped with nothing but our tea and loungewear. And while I must admit I am partial to a onesie in the winter and knickers in the summer (curtains closed natch, I don't want to undo all my neighbour's goodwill in one fell swoop), ever since last month when while working in me altogether, and I had that got that sudden realisation that the IT helpdesk man remote controlling my computer also had access to my webcam should he desire it, nudity in my workplace has gone out the window forever..... Or at least when IT phones. 

I feel your pain Mr Helpdesk man

Audrie, Daisy and Paige

So, today is a day like most others. Starting off with a bit of faffing, an abashed opening the door to the postman while STILL in my dressing gown (he's used to this by now) and a flick through the papers online over a pre work cuppa, and it was here (in the Guardian natch) where I read a small article which has kinda thrown my thoughts outta whack for the day. You see, it was an article about a new Netflix documentary coming up, and the subject being the violent sexual attacks on 2 american school girls. It's not so much Netflix and chill as Netflix and be rather disturbed, and really one should be disturbed. After all we hear a lot abut these kind of incidents, from your Brock Turners to the rather strange (in the UK at least) worlds of Greek frathouse parties, and none of it appears to be very good, for either the young men or young women growing up nowadays.

The stories of these girls (Audrie, Daisy and Paige) are disturbingly similar despite the very big geographic and cultural differences in these girls lives. They were young (Audrie aged 15, Daisy aged 14 & Paige just 13 years old ), went to a party with their school friends, all imbibed alcohol, and got raped (by their 'friends' I remind you). The young women in question, girls still, were subsequently bullied non stop on social media, victim blamed, their families vilified, abused and attacked. But there is difference... as a result of the online and offline bullying Audrie was on the end of, she killed herself, whereas despite several attempts at the same, Daisy is still alive and tells her horrific tale with Paige. Geez, I think back to my school years where I also got bullied pretty much throughout, I'd never want that experience again, but kids nowadays? With all the social media bullying that goes on, the torment that doesn't even stop when you cross over your doorstep into your home that should be your sanctuary? God, these poor kids. There simply is no escape, I feel so hard for them.

But why did this strike a chord today of all days? I'm not sure. Perhaps it is due to several recent exposures of misogyny on Twitter (verbal, not dick pics I hasten to add) that I've had in recent weeks. Also it's part down to several conversations I've had on dates recently, meeting questions such a as 'is the fight for female equality really so necessary any more?', 'does rape culture really exist?' and 'c'mon, it's not like sexual harassment is such a problem nowadays is it?'. To which the answers are obviously 'yes', 'yes', and for the third time, errrrr 'yes'.

It struck a further chord, being of the age I am now, seeing as I have lots of friends who are raising young children. And I have some great male friends who are being fantastic fathers, bringing boys and girls into this world and teaching them the ways of it. And while I'm sure that these great men (& women!) will be raising great sons (and I'm sure teaching them about the ways of consent, relationships, and what being a man is truly about), it is for their daughters I fear. For despite the many decades passing since the bra burning of the 60s and 70s, I'm still being asked these questions of whether equality is really such an issue, and it IS. Because of this, I am sure that many new dads of daughters the world over will be looking at things in a new light. They may be realising that the world absolutely still is a scary place for women, an unequal place for women, for while Audrie, Paige and Daisy were being attacked by entitled young men, those same young men were nigh on guaranteed protection for their crimes, all as a reward for their triumphs of teenage athleticism (we all remember Brock Turner). Disgusting isn't it?

It's interesting to note that apparently one indicator that’s likely to have a major impact on a man’s response when you ask him about gender inequality: whether or not he has a daughter. Dads with daughters are far more likely to likely to champion the cause of women than those with sons I think, and this is played out in the evidence. Researchers at the University of British Columbia discovered that fathers who do their share of the housework raise daughters who aspire to broader career goals, including in traditionally male-dominated, often higher paid fields. Another example can be found in a Danish study which revealed that male CEOs who have daughters are more likely to close the gender pay gap at their companies.

Now, I'm not saying that Audrie, Paige and Daisy didn't have feminist dads who didn't advise them well enough about just how unequal this world is, and how they can mitigate it. Far from it. For it is with young MEN that these conversations need to be had, not with young women. Every woman knows the fear of walking home late at night, and know that should she get attacked, there will be people tutting that she deserved it (I know I felt like people would do the same when I got sexually assaulted on one summer's day in a low cut top). After all, it's dark out, or she was wearing a short skirt, or she shouldn't have had that last glass of wine or, or or.....! Where are these people having that same conversation with the young men of the world? It's not to do with skirt length, alcohol or how well lit the road is, it's about rape. Taking something that is not yours. Taking it without consent. Your entitlement being more valued than someone else's lifetime of trauma. It's not about talking to your daughters, it's about talking to your sons. And until those conversations happen the world over, until (some!) men stop taking what they feel entitled to, there will always be a Paige, a Daisy or an Audrie, and this saddens me.

So while I don't look forward to watching this Netflix documentary (due to be released on 23^rd September fact fans), I will be. It's no popcorn and fizzy pop feel good movie that's for sure, it's a depressing condemnation of the society that many young people are growing up in right now. But one can only hope that while it may not feel good, hopefully it will do some good, for the sake of young women everywhere.

P.S Normal blogging services of Sophie's life o pitfalls will resume shortly, and I hope you don't mind this minor distraction on the way. 

Pick up that baton and run

It's been a funny ole month at Sophington Towers, not so much births, deaths and marriages but certainly birthdays and a death, which frankly is enough for any one month to deal with. But in the end one death and a birthday certainly seem apt, if for nothing apart from reflecting a circle of life.

Me: Nan, let's take a selfie
Nan: Who are those two eejits on your phone?

The birthday was my own, and while that's not much to sing about, after all it's just a year, but the death? The death got me in the kicker, for you see the death was none other than my very fabulous last grandparent standing. It was my nan, she of the knitting needles, amusing misunderstandings of selfies and 'a bell on every tooth'. Regular readers of my errant witterings will have heard of her before, she was a big feature in my life . And I guess it was only in her passing I realised just how powerful she was.

You see, my nan was a very unassuming woman. She had a hard bloody life. She was not so much blessed with, as had dumped upon her a whole heap of troubles, not limited to a pretty crappy husband, list of health conditions as long as your arm (& then some) and a life of struggles. But my nan, strengthened by her faith in both in the big man upstairs and in humanity as a whole, well my nan did good. She raised 2 very strong daughters and she never let her problems conquer her indomitable spirit, or indeed sense of humour. She was a good woman, and it is on this good womanship & family that I wish to ponder.

Nan and her two girls

Raising two children as essentially a single mother must be hard for any woman, let alone one beset by struggles in a time when it must have been very hard to be a single mum. But she did it, and as I was sitting there at her hospital bed that I realised it was in her death that this hard work had completed it's circle. Unless you've been there, you've no idea how hard it is to watch someone you adore die. And not to die quietly, not quickly, not peacefully, but when every breath is a struggle, a fight not to let go. Witnessing that in itself takes strength. Strength to comfort your grandmother when you know she won't be around much longer, strength to, on doctors orders, deny her that small cup of tea she was begging for (she always took pleasure in the smallest things in life, from a nice cup of tea to the glorious bloom of one of her pot plants). Strength to hold her wee little hand feeling it weaken day by day just wishing she could steal some of yours to last that little bit longer. Strength to come to terms with important medical decisions that you know are for the best but you dread nonetheless, and perhaps most importantly, strength to hold up your mum in a time when her pain must've been so much more than your own.

First day of 'Big School'

As we family sat around her bedside (& not just women I hasten to add, but also my cousin Daniel who I don't think knew it, but was like some kind of bastion of manhood in my eyes, showing more public courage and fortitude than I've seen in a guy of any age. Proof indeed ladies, there are great men out there), I felt this overwhelming sense of femininity. A baton of womanhood was being passed from one generation to the next. My nan, she'd cared for me as a little un, held my hand as I was taking my first tottering steps into this big bad world of ours, wiped my ass and changed my nappies, babysat me, stood proudly next to me on my first day of 'big school', made tears turn into smiles and as I grew, those smiles turned into guffaws with her, chuckling at the oddities of life. And it was only in her passing did I realise that that baton of care, well it was my turn to pick it up now. My turn to run with the great woman genes, powering from one generation to the next, it was my turn to take care, but this time it was to take care of my mum as she was saying goodbye to hers. It was my job as a daughter to channel some of my nan's strength that she'd displayed (with very little grumbling) all her life, it was my job to stand up be counted and to hold up my mum, cos she needed some of that strength I couldn't impart to my nan. And as much as I might've wanted to run away at some points (and boy did I) I didn't. That's my baton of care, it's Nan's baton of strength and I will always carry that with me.

Nan strangling in action

I had always thought the big indicator of adulthood was getting a mortgage (well, having children has never seemed on my radar so a mortgage is just as long term and probably just as expensive!). When I become a home owner I'll be a grown up I thought. That'll make me a proper, card carrying, fully fledged adult I thought. HA! How wrong was I? On the day my flat completed I had no sense of achievement, no sense of overnight maturity. No siree, all I had was a monthly payment plan and a sense of deflation, let down by an absence of something that was entirely of my own imagining. But of late I've realised just how ludicrous that seems. It's not a milestone, a 21^st birthday card, a key to the door, a mortgage agreement or any other arbitrary markers in the sand that brings you from youth to maturity. It's these moments. These moments of life that you look can look back upon, pointing to saying 'THAT was a moment that changed me'. And it has.

You see, my mum called me strong last week and for all my oft repeated defence that I'm not really all that strong, I've just had a lot of shit thrown at me, perhaps she's got a point. Perhaps that's my nan's unwritten legacy to the women of her family, her baton of care, her baton of strength, her example of picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, having a chuckle at yourself and carrying on. And I have to say, as I'm facing the rest of the year newly single & with all of the challenges that life inevitably hurls at you, as legacies go, it's not a bad one. Thanks Nan. I owe you one. xx

I only wanna be with EU

So, Brexit huh? We're in a post brexit era now peoples! Except we aren't, we're in a political quagmire of our own making, and that's what makes it worse. Call me melodramatic but this week has been one of sinking feelings and even sinkier hearts. Well for me anyways. 

Ok, lemme backtrack a little. I know YOU know there was a referendum, and I hazard a guess you'll know the outcome of that afore mentioned balls up to the nth degree. A balls up not because of the result, which I totally disagree with BTW but democracy has spoken (or rather roared in the manner of an EDL member on a bad skinhead day) and it's the way of democracy to leave it to bone headed fools (public & politicians alike) to make important decisions. No, the balls up I refer to is the one we find ourselves in now, this post Brexit era that none of us can make head nor tails of (let alone the politicians that lead us into this hot mess) which seems getting all the more ballsed up by the hour... hence them sinking feelings. 

Lets take a moment to reflect upon developments nearly one week on:

1. No one knows how, when or even indeed IF we will leave Europe now - though that said, we didn't know that before the referendum anyways but now we're committed to knowing squat all for at least the foreseeable future.

2. The Tories' plans for the future seem to be crashing through the political waves with all the grace and good fortune of the Titanic... 

3. Labour Party see above. Then pass me a life jacket.

4. The Lib Dems... errr who? Oh yeah. Them (now) rare spotted beasties in the yellow. *sighs* Nuff said really. 

5. The SNP? Well they're are bidding to become the official opposition in a parliament where they don't even stand for election in 3 out of the 4 countries represented therein. Which when you think about it, is a bit nuts.

6. The rest of the world is all 'Jeez, UK,WTF did you do that for?' (As they should be). Still, makes a change to the US being the usual recipient of the global DOH award for dumbass decision making.

7. Donald Trump is happy with the result. That in itself is reason enough to be scared. After all a man that positively embraces such a bad 'do with aplomb ought not be an authority on anything, follicle or political. 

8. The England football team got beaten by a team whose GDP appears to be based mainly on herring and Peter Andre endorsements. Not strictly Brexit related but certainly following a theme.

9. Reported hate crimes are on the rise in the last week alone and people are scared.

10. Humanity is turning on itself.

Yeah, points 1-7 we can cope with. We're British after all (specifically English for point 8, and very much resigned to despair on such matters) and we have a national stereotype of stiff upper lips to fall back on. But points 8 & 9? Now that's what scares me. What REALLY scares me. Because you see, for all of it's supposed discussion about political sovereignty, the NHS, economy, jobs, the future of British industry in or out of the EU, this referendum was not about coming together to form a decision. Instead it was about DIFFERENCE.... 

The difference between Europe and the UK. The difference between the Brexiteers and Remainers, between fact and fiction. The difference between all 4 nations that make up this Isle (& a bit) of ours. The difference between the political elite and the disenfranchised, the haves and the have nots. The difference between religions, races, regions and nationalities. The difference between strivers, scroungers, and everyone in between. It's been a tug of war with the basic (one would hope) values of humanity and respect caught in the middle. This referendum has sought to divide without the ability to conquer. Shred hopes, dreams, ambitions, life plans, futures already in motion and those yet to be created. The country (well let's be honest, continent) has been ripped apart in more ways than one, and no one knows how to put it back together, certainly not me. 

So what do we do? How do we solve this knotty problem? Minds far greater than mine (and indeed lesser *scans current raft of desperately flailing politicians*) don't seem to have the answer. And even if they did, apparently this country is 'fed up of experts' anyways, and look where that's got us. So all I can do is add my tuppence ha'penny to the debate and suggest we just be nice to each other. Or at least try. Try not to hurl abuse at someone that doesn't look like you, sound like you. Try to be a bit more understanding; not all Brexiteers are rabid racists, and not all Remainers are out of touch elitist wankers. We need to try to pull together, not be pulled apart. We need to channel a bit of what some think made us great once, namely good manners, a strong moral core (ok, that's debatable) and a calm, rational chat over a steaming cuppa hot tea. In short, let's just try not to be dicks. It's not good for us as individuals or as a country. The rest will figure itself out in time.... I hope.

A Family Affair (Part 2)

So, following Ye Old Family reunion, I am thrilled to announce that, I am by proof of writing, still alive. Therefore proving that either the murderous stats (unlike Shakira’s hips) do indeed lie, or I caught my family on a particularly well-behaved evening. Either ways, it’s a positive outcome, and there hasn’t been a jot of murder blighting my family’s good name. PHEW!

But tendencies away from murder to one side, this weekend was an overwhelmingly positive one. There is something very special about gathering the family together, and boy did we gather. We had over 140 members of the Keane family, all descending from a troop of 9 (or was it 11)? siblings born in Wexford, Ireland at the turn of the 20th century. And all that Catholic breeding meant A LOT of descendants. 

The oldest (90) & youngest (14 months)
in the room. That's your future kid,
no wonder you're looking scared.

They came from far and wide hailing from Australia, France, Canada and Holland with ages ranging from 14 months to 90 years old. Stories were aired & compared and scandals widely discussed, from the cousin who held his trouser up with string to salacious scandals, to my particular favourite was that of Cousin Willie, a seemingly undiscriminating kinda man who went to the wilds of Canada. Upon his arrival in Canada he sent back to Ireland for his fiancée but one can only imagine his surprise when his fiancée’s sister turned up instead, the fiancée herself preferring to stay in the Emerald Isle. Cousin Willie being the indifferent man he apparently was, decided one sister was as good as another and married her on the spot. This unfussiness with women seems to be a common theme that soon unveiled itself with the story of another cousin who got 2 women up the duff and had to turn to his local priest for advice on which to marry and which to ditch. An early 20th Century version of Snog, Marry, Avoid it seems… except without much avoiding.

So apart from a love of the horizontal hide the sausage (& I retell these tales in the understanding these people have long passed), were there any other traits I could easily discern from last week’s reunion?  Well the fact that most there, including myself, had a penchant for drinking came as no surprise. I hate to turn to national stereotypes but it was in Ireland after all… Also, I can’t help but mention what seemed an almost universal inability to hold a tune. There was the odd exception, however let it be said, we are not musically endowed our family. However, we don’t let it hold us back as anyone who has seen me after 5 drinks near a karaoke machine will attest….

Teaching Nan the ways of the selfie.
 And failing it seems

And of course, while we’re not belting out one song to the tune of another, I have discovered us Keane descendants do like a chat (though my friends will undoubtedly say that is no great surprise). My 90-year-old grandma is a prime example, she may not be able to see the person she is talking at so well, nor hear their responses but that didn’t stop her!  She was up well past her bedtime every evening, and had to practically be dragged out of the reunion at nearly midnight (the latest she’s stayed up in many a year). Fortunately for such matters, she is wheelchair bound so although dragging wasn’t strictly necessary, the power of a swift wheelie came in very handy. At one point she was telling me about one particular family member who was (according to my nan) not present, thankfully it seems due to her having the condition of “a bell on every tooth”. Nope, I’d never heard that one either, but on further interrogation I discovered it means that not only does someone like to chat, but they do so at full volume. 

So all I can say is watch out world, judging by the volume of clattering and chattering at the Keane family reunion, this is one trait that has hit every generation on the way down, and as far as I’m concerned, long may it continue. For this is my clan, and I'm proud to be part of it.

Great grandfather Tom Keane. From whence I've sprung

It's A Family Affair

Please excuse any typos on this here blog post, for as I write I am currently chugging my way across the notoriously turbulent Irish sea....  Yes, the pipes, the pipes are indeed calling for I am off to the land of my forefathers (and foremothers too natch, lets not be sexist). But why am I returning from the land from whence I came (ok, my grandparents came)? Well it's a 50/50 split really. Primarily because it's time to reenact that age old tradition of The Family Reunion, and secondarily to assist my dear mother with the primary care of my rather aged, much loveable grandma.

Now, ito my recollection it's been near on 34 years since the last family reunion, and since I am a mere 35 years old at time of writing the recollection itself is somewhat shaky, if not impossible. In fact, the only evidence I have of said reunion is a picture of the day taken by my grandmother, of me & my brother sat on my mothers knee. On the reverse of said photo is my grandmother's near indecipherable writing dating the picture to 1978. Those of the mathematical persuasion may by now have figured out that I wasn't even born in 1978 (am an 80s child, as all the best are), so either that baby is an imposter or my nan's maths is way off.  As far as I can gather from that previous reunion, much fun was had and the only scandal to air was that of my 3 year old brother licking the vinegar off all the pickled onions (it was the 80s remember, am sure pineapple and cheese on sticks also made an appearance) just before they were consumed by the haplessly unawares extended members of my family. Fortunately no after effects were experienced, or at least if they were, they haven't as yet made their way into the annals of family history

But pickled onion licking is the least of my worries at this reunion, as I recently stumbled across some FBI figures relating to just how dangerous families can be (don't ask.... my search history is a veritable cornucopia of useless facts). According to said stats, in 2009 as much as 25% of US murders were committed by family members of the victim.  This increases even more when you include murders by spouses/ partners. WOWZERS... 25%? You gotta be kidding me! Families are chuffing lethal! And considering that we appear to have almost 150 members of our family pitching up to this event from as far away as Australia and Canada (we'll have more flags on display than a UN convention), perhaps I ought to be fearing for my life instead of merrily chucking back a pint of Strongbow at the ferry bar in an effort to combat seasickness.  

My only consolation thus far is the person organising this reunion is a detective with the Dublin police force, so if we're not in safe hands then at least our murders have a higher than average chance of being solved.... I hope. And if not, then perhaps I ought to have sent that imposter in my place after all.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

I remember at school when I was a kid, I got called a dreamer, I think by my art teacher. And it would be a pretty accurate description, especially as she was at the time examining my recently created clay bowl, with had less of the dream about it, and more of the living nightmare to be honest.... but art is all about interpretation innit?

Who says cats don't like water?

But she’s right, I have always been a dreamer, though perhaps not in the way she intended.  I mean we all are really, we all dream, but after recent discussions with friends, I’ve discovered I might dream vividly more than most, or at least I remember them more them most. Take last night for example, where Tom Cruise ducking exploding cars made an appearance, alongside my mate Alex as we both smoked fags and watched cats diving for fish in the canal, before fast forwarding to my local Breton cider shop (disclaimer, there are no Breton cider shops I know of in both my neighbourhood or the greater London area) where I placed an order for some of their finest, only to be palmed off with a Sussex cider I can get down at my local Sainsburys…. And then I woke up.

And this dream is no different, unusual or vivid than other dreams I’ve had recently. Others include opening a record shop with Noel Gallagher to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the release of Wonderwall. It was a great little shop, packed with squishy sofas which old nanas waiting for the bus would make full use of (much to the annoyance of myself and Noel) as well as a very literal Wonderwall covered in What’s the Story album covers. Or the one where I was having an argument with my mum in a sushi restaurant in California, owned and run by Hollywood actor and Roseanne star John Goodman, who doubled as the local mayor. That was one was so vivid I woke up crying, not at John Goodman's local governing policies, but more at the blazing row I’d had with my mum. I was in such a sobbing state I actually had to ring my mum to talk about it.

Noel doesn't seem to mind
these nanas on his sofa

What the actual F is all of that about? What is the point of any dream, not least ones concerning fish diving cats and Tom Cruise showing off some fab Matrix style manoeuvres?  I have no idea, but there are lots of theories floating about regarding the point of dreams, if indeed they have any point at all.  Perhaps the best known of dream theory is that of Sigmund Freud who basically said our dreams are some kind of wish fulfillment, we dream what we wish for, whether represented literally or symbolically. And goodness knows I do like a French cider so maybe that theory holds water.

There’s another theory which states that dreams are a way of our minds trying to combat our innermost fears, and although I do find Tom Cruise's gurning face somewhat terrifying, I’m a massive fan of sushi and I do love a blast of the ole Oasis now and then, so that one doesn’t fly with me terribly well.  Personally I’m going with the theory proposed by psychiatrist J Allan Hobson, who said that dreams are no more than a by product of our active central nervous system, our circuits in our head firing off memories, recollections and images as we sleep. Quite literally brain farts.

Well that's one way to get elected...

But one thing that seems to run throughout the many and varied dream theories is that of story telling. Whether with any higher purpose or not, our dreams tell us stories. As a lover of stories and storytelling this idea certainly resonates with me, and goodness knows my dreams are more like stories of very little point, rather than symbolically laden messages my subconscious is trying to send me…. That is unless it’s warning me off cider sellers making false promises, Hollywood actors posing as local government officials, swimming cats and nanas stealing sofa space, which on second thoughts is pretty sound advice after all.