I don't remember my dreams

It's rare that I wake up in the morning and remember my dreams. Today's was the weirdest that I've had in a long time. It was sexy and horrific and complicated all at once. I don't know who they were, but there were three women, beautiful women, and me in the dream. I don't exactly remember why, but one of the women had made a ceramic and life-size version of her naked torso, and had asked me to check its likeness aginst her real naked body. I looked out of a window, and saw the Beetham Tower, only it was creased at the top - like an open cigarette packet, the lid bent at 45 degrees. It collapsed and exploded. Nearer, in the reflection of a glass building across the street, I saw another building, curved like 3 Hardman Square, tumble in flames. We went outside, and in the streets, a massive rocket - the width of the whole road, silver and cold-looking - was moving along on the back of a vast trailer. Behind it and beyond it, as far as I could see, more gargantuan warheads rumbled on, on every road. The dream then cut to a map, as you might see on the news, with two countries highlighted. The map looked like South Africa, but the countries involved were labelled "Lebanon" and "Afghanistan." Cartoon flames burnt over a dot that meant a city. The three beautiful women and I stood in the street as the procession of missiles went on, on, on. There were missiles in the sky, shooting by silently. A building nearby burned. I woke up.

A weird start to the day. I went round to the my house in Chorlton to do some unpacking, and some sizing up of the task ahead of me. I'd been quite busy shifting stuff when I was there last, and I hadn't really noticed a few things about the room that weren't quite right. There was a lot more damp hidden beneath the curtains, and the drawers were in wrong in one of the chests. The wardrobe was much more cock-eyed than I'd first spotted, and inside, one of the doors was barely hanging on straight. I was going to have to do some DIY. I don't have any tools, so I texted Paul to see if I could borrow some of his. Yes of course, he said, come round to his new place in Didsbury and pick them up. So I did. It felt odd to go and visit Paul at his new house. I haven't ever been in a situation where seeing Paul at home wasn't in my home too. So it goes, I suppose. The weirdness really struck me as I left there.

I came home to finish packing. I've been delaying it, if I'm honest, because it's hard to think of leaving Everett and all it means. I'm scared about the new place. I felt physically sick at points as I wrapped up plates and cups. Dread engulfed me. Doom. Fear. But being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means being scared and doing it anyway. Be brave Dave.