Skirting the blue rhinoceros walking down the street, I admired the beautifully iridescent crocodile walking straight through the pavement café, as he ambled happily after his dreamer. Some people leapt to their feet in panic, though most ignored him as he was no threat to anybody. The enormous dinosaur ignored him too, as did the man running in slow motion from who knew what horror, a panicky look on his face. I repressed the urge to ask our usual waiter if he'd brought his twelve-legged emerald spiders along with him as, dream spiders or not, they scared the crap out of me.

Life had become very interesting after the invention of the Parkinson Dream Catcher, at least for those of us who had bought the genuine version. You couldn't say the same for people who'd bought the cheap pirated copies, mind you. You see, their dreams wouldn't go away, and everybody could see the results. If you'd dreamed of a monster while wearing the pirated dream catcher, it popped up every time you thought about it, and lets face it, when you saw weird happenings and weird creatures on a daily basis, it was impossible not to think of your own dream. If you dreamed of walking naked through a crowded street, you could be sure your naked self would show up at the most embarrassing moment, a job interview, perhaps.

Everybody else could see your dream too, though apparently your dream couldn't see them, only you. There were obviously many people who dreamed of flying, as flights of altar egos soared through the air, never hitting any of the others, but passing straight through them as if they were made of mist. Some of these dreams eventually faded with time, but the vast majority of sufferers needed psychiatric help to get rid of them - expensive psychiatric help, and the shrinks were having a financial field day.

To those of us who weren't affected, it became the regular lunchtime relaxation, to sit at a café on the Cappuccino Strip and, over a sandwich and coffee, watch the incredible free parade passing by. I almost envied the girl who walked past, with Brad Pitt trying to keep his non-corporeal arm around her shoulders, but the sight of the man trying to ignore the lion continually pouncing straight through him was a little unnerving, especially as the lion was about twice the normal size.

I wasn't in too good a mood today, as my boyfriend Mike was out with me, and he'd been cheapskate enough to buy the pirated dream catcher. I know it was silly to be jealous of a dream, but I was getting tired of seeing Paris Hilton gazing into his eyes as if he were the last man on earth.

"But a man can't help what he dreams about," he protested. "Just because I once dreamed about her doesn't mean I don't love you! And come on Brenda, don't you feel just a bit sorry for me? I can't even see where I'm going 'cos she's in my face and I can't see through her!"

I replied with typical female silence, while thanking the fates that my dreams of a younger Paul Newman were a secret between me and my legal dream catcher. A smiling young girl surrounded by a tumble of delightful puppies caught my eye, while her mother looked harassed. No prizes for guessing which version she'd bought! I'd dreamed of a lovely Cavalier King Charles Spaniel the other night, and would have enjoyed being haunted by him. Imagine, all the joys of pet ownership with none of the expense, and none of the chewed furniture.

Ignoring two dream bodies that plummeted off the second storey balcony and through our coffee cups, without spilling a drop, I wondered what would happen if Mike tried to drive and the Hilton bimbo popped up in front of his face, and I got mad at him all over again. And what if somebody really did try to commit suicide by jumping off a roof? Nobody would duck out of the way, and they'd get splatted too. No, maybe it was for the best that the Government had banned the dream catchers, even the legal ones, and were trying to recall them all. They weren't going to get mine though. It was harmless and I'd paid a lot of money for it, and Paul Newman had those fantastic eyes...

Leaving Mike and his blonde Bimbo to their own devices, I made my way back to my office. It was a wrench to leave the passing parade behind, as I might never get to see a green unicorn again. I made sure Laurel wasn't in the lobby as I entered the building. She'd dreamed about a lift crashing, and I hated to think what would happen if I got into her dream lift.

I didn't bother moving around the dream sheep whose peacock blue wool was already knitted in cable stitch, but walked straight through it. Or rather, tried to. I collided with it and fell to the floor. As I struggled to rise, the sheep winked and said, "Sorry dear!" before trotting out through the street door.

"What the hell's going on?" I yelled to the world at large. "That's not supposed to happen!"

Now what had gone wrong?


© Sandy Parkinson March 2007. Word count: 896