There must be some budding Trelawney’s out there who care to tell me what the heck this means, because I just woke up out of a champagne induced coma from The Aussie’s emotional Leaving London party, to discover I’d had the weirdest, most vivid dream of my life. Usually I wake up with a vague memories of fairies and pirates and shizzle, but this was so entirely complete that I feel like I have literally just gotten off the train.
There were five of us, (joined, later, by my boss) all in a car driving from London to Cambridge, where we were going to a ‘University Conference’ or some such like. When we got there, we were taken into a huge function room, and sat at a small table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a veritable council of ‘esteemed Cambridgites’, including such familiar faces as Brian May and Russell Grant (too much Strictly Come Dancing?) who were there to judge whether we were suitable for Cambridge.
When the first of our group started speaking, I realised something HORRENDOUS. I had not got the paperwork I needed with me, I hadn’t read the email properly and didn’t realise you needed to do a presentation – I’d done absolutely nothing whatsoever. I thought to myself, perhaps I can just remember everything I did for my presentation when I got my job, and just do it without the visual aids. At this point, one of my managers leans over to me and asks;
“Ritzi, did you need to set up your powerpoint? You should do it soon,”
“Oh no, I’m not using one. I’m just going to talk through my presentation. Win them over with my charm, you know.”
“Gosh,” the manager said. “I hope that doesn’t look too spontaneous.”
At this point I started to wonder, why were my management so keen for the three of us who were there to get into Cambridge? Surely that meant we wouldn’t be able to work for them any more? At that point, a curly haired man across the room (who I believe was once in Wicked) gestured for me to get him my paperwork. I panicked, and pointed to the changing rooms (yes, there were changing rooms) mouthing that it was in my bag and I’d slip out and get it.
I decided not to go back. I would deal with work people later. It was better that I slipped out discreetly instead of making a twat of myself in front of Brian May.
So I explored Cambridge, which, in Dreamland, sort of resembled a slightly skanky local sports centre. It did, however, have a familiar face in my company’s receptionist, who apparently moonlights at Cambridge University.
I had no shoes, and realised that I’d left them under the table in the big hall. There was no way I was going back for them, so in the end I managed to find some bright pink Doc Martin’s, and claimed them as my own.
I dared to sneak back to the hall, sitting at the back and away from the crowd. A girl I didn’t know was now twirling a ribbon on a stick around, and everyone was clapping. Then, we were momentarily interrupted by a prayer group who marched into the room and had a quick vigil for Thomas Hardy.
I knew time was short, so I slipped out again before the Morris Dancers started, and legged it to the train station (which actually seemed to be a tube).
On the train, I sat down, trying to read Tolstoy on my blackberry, and a chavvy, unpleasant sort of girl standing near to me kept elbowing me in the face. I looked up, glared, said ‘do you mind?’ and still she carried on. So I moved a couple of seats down, and she sat next to me.
And then she threw a condom at me, and I woke up.
What the feck does that all mean then?