Here is last night’s dream. The first part is atypical, unusual.
The dream opens in Little Portugal near Vauxhall London. I have been in one of the cafés there and am now heading to the underground station at Vauxhall. It is very busy, chaotic even, like a rush hour. I am a little wary of the crowd. I am trying to buy a tube ticket. The modern machines seem incomprehensible and I struggle to make them work. Around me the tube station chaos and hectic hamster-wheel world continues. I make my way to the back of the station behind the ticket office. I find a more old-style ticket machine which actually accepts coins. Without selecting a destination I feed coins into the machine. It clunks and whirrs and into the shiny metallic ticket tray it deposits a small business card sized ticket which I have not chosen.
I pick the “ticket” out and it is on a textured manilla card of a dark cream magnolia colour. The card has thickness and embossed texture. It is perhaps expensive. On it is written in a black Times Roman like typeface “Kensington South” and nothing else. The phrase is centred on the card. I look on the reverse side of the card and there is nothing. I examine the card for a while slightly perplexed at why the ticket machine should produce this card and with this word order. The sight of the card amid the chaos and busy stands out markedly. In the chaos and mess I can see these words.
A tall woman in a skirt and jacket business suit joins me. She is a bit younger than me. She has an air of command. She is in a bit of a rush and speaks English well. I recognise her but do not know her. She complains about the busy nature of the station and the queues at the ticket machines. I say that she can have my ticket if she wants. I hand her the card with “Kensington South” on. She looks at it mildly bemused and asks where I got it. I point at the ticket machine. I understand that she has come from her nearby office and is on her way to an important meeting elsewhere. The ticket seems to answer a question for her.
The scene change and I am in a mass open air kitchen with multiple ringed gas hob stoves, barbecues and ovens. It is being manned by mostly Chinese chefs in longitudinal striped blue and white aprons. I am at a hob and cooking a lamb dish in a large frying pan. I have lamb on and off the bone in a thin broth with small onions cut into crimped halves. There are tomatoes and rosemary. The broth is a little thin and needs reduction. I am planning to put some pearl barley in. There are some finely cut lamb chops which I am due to add so that the meat falls of the bone which will flavour the stock. The kitchen is also chaotic. A young Chinese woman comes to taste the stock. She finds it a bit thin. I show her my pot of home made harissa paste. I say that I am going to add this. She says that this is a Chinese kitchen. I ask if there are many Chinese lamb dishes. No. Then let me use harissa it is made for lamb and the best way for lamb to be served. Her father comes over and tastes the harissa paste. He smiles and says let the gweilo serve “them” the lamb any way he wants. It is up to me. I add the chops to pan and a little while later can strip the meat from the bone. The broth now has a few islands of lamb fat juice as yet not emulsified floating in it. It smells good. I start to add the harissa.
The dream ends.
Dreamyoga 