The un-American dream

We've been to Centre Parcs 3 or 4 times over the last decade with an assortment of friends and family members. The last time we went, several families booked the same week and we all managed to secure chalets within the same area, so a big group of us who all knew each other ended up being neighbours from Monday - Friday too. It was ace.

After unloading all our stuff and moving all vehicles to the designated car park, the new neighbourhood quickly became a carless playground / abandoned bike area and children milled around with a bit more freedom than they would otherwise have at home. It was probably like going back in time - children had a home but were welcome elsewhere, using the scrum of bikes and scooters to locate their mates. They came home to eat, but could pick up a snack at a friend's house too. Individually, families made plans for the day, but these were quite fluid and in between unpacking, food shopping and meeting up at the pool / gym / ice rink, children re-enacted a more free range lifestyle as described in those viral news feed cloggers usually titled I survived being a child of the 50s / 60s / 70s (which curiously never seem to mention the national treasure that was Jimmy Saville or child road death statistics in an age before booster seats were available, let alone compulsory).

Anyway.

The layout and inventory of each of our houses was exactly the same, and although decor did vary slightly, the overall appearance was fairly generic- the developers clearly shopped with the one supplier for all their finishing touches. (What a dream job for someone that would be- shopping for a living then playing house with the results...).

Again. Anyway.

As the week wore on I noticed that people were a bit less precious about their belongings in this fake temporary environment. Granted, on holiday you generally have less things in your life to be precious about, but even so- there was an increase in trust and /or a decrease in security awareness. Bikes were stacked up in racks outside communal areas, helmets clipped into handlebars. There were dozens of buggies outside the pool, babies noticeably absent but carrier bags stuffed underneath them. And people were far less likely to close their curtains at dusk, meaning anyone walking by could easily see into their living rooms.

This last thing especially intrigued me.
Q: Why did no one care?
A: Because variations between us had been suspended and everyone was pretty much the same.

There were 2 grades of accommodation - Woodland Lodge and Executive Suite. Only fellow holiday makers were passing by and given that each had exactly the same facilities at their own disposal, there was no reason to be looking in through someone else's open curtains. Even if an Executive Suiter took an accidental detour, they were only on their way home to a slightly bigger living room containing identical (or very, very similar) soft furnishings & furniture.

I enjoyed this week for many reasons: No work or school, dossing with people I love, swimming every day, no post to open, being able to walk everywhere we needed to be, not needing to be anywhere, actually... But something else was great too and I couldn't quite figure out what. At first I thought it was spending time with our neighbours who were already friends, but it was deeper than that. There was a commonality between us that week. We were all living in a similar way. It was unfamiliar but comforting. Stuff wasn't as important. I'm all for downgrading stuff. I have too much of it yet am caught up in a way of life that requires it. Clearing out and passing things on is like therapy for me. After a bad day, most people phone a friend, go to the gym or reach for the wine. Me? I clean out a cupboard. Or a friend's cupboard. Or in the days of our lets move house every year-a-thon, pack a box of possessions and label it with a sharpie.

I can see why Communism was considered a good thing. On paper it must have seemed the perfect solution to inequality and a fractured society. Unfortunately, as a collective, people don't do restraint very well and when we tried it, the whole thing became so extreme it travelled full circle and met Capitalism coming the other way. But everything in moderation, you know? Just a little bit of Communism. Would that have been so bad?

• What if the movement had ended with the idea that stuff doesn't define you?

• What if the party members had managed to screen out the power trippers and schizoids when they elected their leaders and the movement had remained pure and uncorrupted? (NB- Russell Brand is definitely onto something but likely falls into the whackjob category. Disappointing. Avoid).

• What if the remaining legacy was not oppression, corruption, enforced atheism and the dismantling of human rights, but the overwhelming acceptance that your car is a thing that gets you from A to B? End of.

• What if some were not created more equal than others but rather we were just created equal?

I have an un-American dream. It involves less stuff. And clean cupboards. And wine (in moderation).

Storage

I recently found myself back in the house we used to rent. Only one kid was present and he was a toddler again which is very weird as he's the middle child and there was no sign of the other two. My cousin was pleading with me to help her die as she could no longer cope with depression. After explaining that an overdose would take too long and anything involving blunt or sharp instruments would create too much mess, she outlined her method to me. I accepted her rationale, helped her climb into a duvet storage bag then vacuumed packed her to death with the hoover hose. Then I hid her body in a kitchen cupboard, which was now no longer in my ex-kitchen but in Molly and Arthur Weasley's. Disturbingly, there were MORE vacuum packed people in the cupboard, all stacked neatly in the fetal position, head to toe. I knew nothing about them. I don't think I did anyway.

Oh.

Dear.

God.

Maybe I do...

I have never been more relieved to wake up. Ever.

My dream hangover lingered way longer than one cup of tea. Normally I wake from much more pleasant (or at least neutral) scenarios and can literally feel the details slip away from me as I become aware that the thing that just happened was a dream. The very decision to recall the finer points of events only speeds up their escape from my head.

Not this dream.

Honestly, this is concerning.

Would the argument for efficient storage and containment of bodily fluids be compelling factors for my subconscious' agreement to participate in assisted suicide? Perhaps on more than one occasion?

There are many reasons I left the NHS. This should have been one of them.

Arrival

I seem to be in an incredibly long tunnel. I have no idea when I got here or how. It's probably a dream then- either that or I'm an architect in Inception?

The ground is covered in a soft moss-like surface. I'm walking far quicker than I know I'm capable of and I cover loads of ground fairly quickly with hardly any effort at all - like I'm on a travelator at an airport. I can't see a source of light but the walls themselves have a dull glow about them so I can see my surroundings easily. The environment is completely alien to me but I'm not anxious. I'm not excited either. I just am.

I gradually become aware of a light up ahead. The tunnel is coming to an end. As I get closer still I see there is a mesh like material all around the exit. I brace myself for getting caught up in it, or maybe waking up. The mesh looks quite flimsy so maybe I'll be able to rip it and get through. Instead when I reach the material, I put my hands out and there's nothing there. 

I stumble out into a bright and noisy courtyard. I'm completely overwhelmed. My senses have gone from minimal stimuli to maximum in a second. There's colour, sky, sunshine, birds, music, trees and people- lots of people. Pretty much shoulder to shoulder. Jostling. Chatting. Laughing. Singing. Crying. Hugging. There's even a conga line of them snaking past. All nationalities are here. And all ages- little kids walking hand in hand with old people. Maybe even different eras are represented too- judging by what people are wearing. There are business like people, kids in school uniform, other kids in jeans and t shirts, soldiers in military gear, goths, tramps, hippies, surfers, elegant looking people in designer labels and everything in between. Some of them look like they've just stepped out of an old photograph- except they're not black and white but dressed in muted browns and greys. It's such an eclectic mix of people it's like a costume party.

The courtyard appears to be part of a city built on a hill. The walls are painted white, dazzling in the sun. There are passageways leading off it in every direction, intersecting with adjacent buildings. As I'm processing all this and trying to orientate myself, a stranger makes his way towards me, jostling a few people out the way and breaking through the conga line (shouting 'Oh- sorry, excuse me..') then when he reaches me his smile grows even wider than before and he embraces me in the biggest bear hug ever. 'You're here at last!' he exclaims, 'I can't believe it!'

I squint stupidly at him because I'm certain we don't know each other. He's wearing a stripey cotton shirt (the non iron crinkly kind), ripped jeans and a navy bandana. I study his face and will my brain to access some clue as to his identity. He's in his 30's maybe with a goatee beard. His kind dark eyes bore into mine, crinkling at the edges with his smile. He is genuinely made up to see me (or whoever he has mistaken me for). He squeezes my shoulders and chuckles to himself 'I've been waiting ages you know- AGES...'

I open my mouth to tell him he must be thinking of someone else when he suddenly grabs my hand and starts pushing past the crowds, towing me along 'Come with me- there's so many people you need to meet!' Before I can argue we're off- pushing our way through the laughing, hugging, singing, conga-ing crowds. In and out of buildings, passageways, cobbled streets and more courtyards.

I am introduced to loads of people, some of whom I know and some I don't. Each one of them seems to know the friendly stranger in the bandana though, and our progress is hampered by exchanges between him and various people who approach us. I am still totally disorientated but don't have time to ask questions- even of the people I know, as I am constantly being whisked away to meet someone else or see a fountain or statue or something else of interest.

One of the people he takes me to is John, an elderly bloke I knew as a child. When I knew him before he was blind, but now his eyes are bright, sparkly and 100% functional. He touches my face with his hand and says I look just like my voice. I want to ask him how long he's been here and who exactly is this stranger in the bandana who has mistaken me for his long lost friend, when I am tugged off once more with 'Ah there she is- come on. See you later John!' And off we go again. John waves to the back of bandana man's head and as I look back at him, he's laughing and dancing with the people on either side of him.

My tour goes on for ages. There are endless introductions and reintroductions. I loose track of who's who and how they are related to each other. I'm exhausted by the newness of it all and yet not breathless at all, even though the city streets are steep and hilly and we have been rushing around between all these different buildings.

Eventually we come to the biggest room yet. It is HUGE with a long wide table down the middle of the room, laden with food. There are big bowls of fruit of genetically modified proportions (grapes the size of satsumas, melon-sized oranges), silver covered serving dishes with delicious smelling contents and pitchers of water with yet more sliced fruit floating on the surface. No one seems to have time to stop and enjoy it though. There's too much chatting and excitement. 

We pass by the top of the table and I'm being led out to an annexe of the hall when I spot the throne. It's the most impressive looking thing ever. Elevated 2 steps above the rest of the room and about eight feet high. It's made of gold with dozens of glistening stones embellishing the sides and back. I know at once the jewels are authentic and it belongs to someone of massive importance.

'Where's the king?' I ask, trying to slow down and look at it properly.

'Huh?' Asks the bandana guy, barely slowing down and excusing us past yet another group who are in the way.

I stop dead. He's still holding my hand so rebounds back towards me. 'Where's the king?' I shout this time and point to the throne. He waves a hand at it dismissively. 'I'll sit down for a while later- I can't sit still for two minutes now you've got here!' He takes my hand and turns to go off again, but I tug his hand hard and force him to stop and look at me.

I uncurl his fingers from mine and turn his hand over. My heart lurches up to my throat, suddenly pounding wildly like I've been running up and down cobbled city streets for the past few hours and it's only just realised. I grab his other hand and examine it too. Like the first, this palm is also badly scarred. A loud sob comes from somewhere near my stomach and I crumple. 

The crying is uncontrollable. I sob against his chest in a mixture of awe and love and appreciation and snot. I'm so overwhelmed I think I might explode. Like a little child who can't command their emotions, I struggle to express them AND breathe. I cling to the bandana man digging my fingers into his arms and choking on my words 'I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...' 

He's silent for a while, like he knows I need to say it, then eventually disentangles himself from my grasp and holds me at arms length, staring at me with his head slightly cocked to one side. He looks happier yet (if that's possible) and maybe even slightly bemused. 'I know you're sorry. You told me before. A long time ago- remember?'  

'Yes but this time I reeeaaallly truly am!' 

I have never meant those words properly before. NEVER.

'I know. You said before. I forgave then. We moved on- yeah?' He embraces me again as my breathing slowly returns to normal. Then he pats my back furiously and yells in excitement, 'Oh there's Karen, from your student halls- 4th floor- remember her? Come on!' And he grabs my hand and we dart off together through the crowds.

Holding his hand, I laugh and run and know I am awake.