Gay Mackie

About Gay Mackie

Gay Mackie is a retired print journalist, who spends her time at yoghurt (yoga), tap dancing and asleep between the hours of 2-4pm. She'd also like to make it clear that the Editor-in-Chief of The Big Smoke is her grandson.

My dreams: Surfing cows and black eyes

Approx Reading Time-10The Editor’s nan is back, and she’s describing the strange violent dreams she has survived. She may be angling for some free analysis – Gay Mackie


Dreams! Don’t you just love ’em?

Mine are always in glorious technicolour with plenty of action, usually involving water, bizarre themes and infrequent personal violence. It’s better than going on holidays! (which I’ve stopped going to).

I’m not brave enough to submit any of them for analysis in fear of the men in the white coats and calm faces. But, I’ll openly share here, in the blind hope that no-one reading is a psychologist.

One of my early dreams saw me sitting on the sand at my hometown beach watching the swimmers. It was a beautiful day and the sea was sparkling, the sun shining, the sky a clean azure and, most importantly, the waves were moderate. (She gets seasick – Ed.)

As I watched the surfers approach the beach, I noticed there was something unusual about one of them. It wasn’t until they came closer that I realised the unusual one was, in fact, a big black and white cow sitting on its haunches on the board with a smile on its face. When it got into the shallows, the cow nimbly leapt off the board and trotted across the sand and off into nearby parkland.

Goodness knows what the analyst would make of that…?

Although my dreams are anything but dull, they can be hazardous. A few years ago, I ended up with a bloody nose and black eye after a particularly rough journey through my subconscious. I was in an army jeep (old style) being escorted across the plains in Africa on the edge of dusk when we came to an obstacle. The obstacle was a water-filled ditch stretching for miles. I exited the Jeep to find a point where I could cross the ditch, but to no avail. So I decided on a leap across it, and took a running jump, which threw me across my bedroom, clearing the edge of the bed and meeting the floor below. Fortunately, my nose was not broken but it was sore for weeks, in a foot race with my rapidly blackening eye, in what topic people would avoid asking about at first.

I’m not sure whether people believed my story.

More recently in a dream I was walking through a town I didn’t recognise when I came to a large shopping centre. Entry to the shops was through the ground level carpark, so I walked through it to the escalator at the rear. It looked like an ordinary escalator but I soon discovered how it wasn’t. Instead of having a level space to step off, the top of the escalator was blocked off by a waist-high metal railing beyond which were racks of clothing. To dismount, one had to scramble over the railing, so that’s what I did. I ended up tangled in the clothing racks with merchandise all over the floor.

In reality, I again found the floor, twisted in bedclothes. Luckily no damage, except for the confused dour look from my husband, who eventually responded to my squawking, two hours later. But it was disconcerting nonetheless. Perhaps the padded room might be the solution.

I have heard of people dreaming they have won the lottery, or achieving sexual congress with Johnny Weissmuller. That has never happened to me. I may not survive the night, but my subconscious remains a realist. It seems to be a hereditary trait. We Mackie’s dream small and dramatic. My grandson, when commuted to his job in the city, told me that he dreamt of a completed workday en route to the destination only to wake up to find the day still ahead of him.

So, little dreamers. Dream on, enjoy that unchartable river you float upon in the wee hours. Also, if there are any doctors in the house, discreetly forward the unofficial results of your unofficial opinion unofficially to the Editor.




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