Housewife's Nightmare

I used to think all nightmares were made of bogeymen and ogres and then, at the tender age of ten, I dreamt that my Mum had an unexpected perm and came to the shocking realisation that the most spooky of all night terrors are made of the most suburban of fears and often smell of ammonia.

Now I’m all grown up and almost permanently irrationally happy in the face of occasional adversity, I dream big spectacular technicolor dreams of the everyday: wacky, gleeful, bonkers dreams that make me smile all day long, tales that could be true with the odd peculiarity in the shape of Russell Brand, and occasionally deadly dull dreams about driving down familiar routes with particular attention paid to indicating at the right time and beeping my horn at passing strangers in dickie bows. My dreams are full of men in dickie bows and I can’t imagine why.
I dream three of four great dreams every night. I am busy in my sleep, my brain never, ever rests and I am even capable of waking up halfway through a dream, closing a window, and getting back in bed to pick up where I’ve left off, as if I’d called time for commercial break…
And this my dears is why I love my bed so: not because it is layered in lavendered loveliness but because it is a floaty feathery fluffy magic carpet I sail away on only a few moments after I blow out my bedside candle each evening. A magic carpet that takes me away to the Brocante equivalent of Hollywood on a nightly basis.
Until now – because recently my sweet scented magic carpet has been delivering me to domestic hell. Locking the doors and not letting me out of the house and then delivering invitations to all and sundry to come view my home as if it were a museum dedicated to the art of disastrous housekeeping.
Oh yes M’dears. Though I am embarrassed to admit it, lately I have been tortured by a recurring dream that I have invited all of you to come root through my drawers, stare at the dirt gathering under my lino and discuss the secrets I keep under my bed. In one harrowing nightmare I found myself sitting in front of the PTA explaining the state of my house to a group of stern men (some of them in dickie bows!)who would ultimately decide whether my slovenly ways rendered my son unfit for school. In another, three Mothers from the school gates donned gingham pinnies and started cleaning my kitchen while I lie, like a pig in muck, utterly naked, drinking rhubarb coffee(!) and offering advice on the benefits of blogging with WordPress.
In both the dreams and the moments shortly before I open my eyes to a brand new day I feel the deepest sense of shame I have ever experienced in my life. And it won’t go away. Am I going nuts? Am I suffering from some delayed version of “I’ve said too much?” or is my inner housewife simply demanding that I get off my lardy bottom and start loving my house all over again?
Please consult your dream dictionaries and feel free to psycho-analyze me. I’m sprawled all over the proverbial chaise longue, stinking of perm lotion and blushing with shame.
Do you dream my Darlings?