Boiling Brains

Transcript for Boiling Brains, Episode 16 of An Author’s Dreams podcast

An old friend of my husband’s, Tony, is staying with us in a house which exists only in my dreams. It has a huge, converted basement where Tony is sleeping. He walks upstairs to our bedroom and announces that one of our cats has fleas. He starts making up a solution to put on the cat. I hand him a can of flea spray.

“It costs 63 quid a can, Tony,” I say. Which is a lot for a can of flea spray.

I use Tony’s phone to make a call. The ring tone is Robbie Williams’ Angels. I decide to write a song as successful as Angels which the whole world will use as a ring tone.

Tone, as we call him, starts cleaning the house.

I’m sitting up in bed holding a pet. It is a combination of a cat and a chicken. The top of its head has been sliced off revealing its brain, bubbling away like a potion in a witch’s cauldron. The pet isn’t in pain and is still alive. I look at the brain matter and worry that I’ll get dust in it. I accidentally squeeze the pet’s head and the liquid inside moves up the top of the head, almost overflowing, like magma rising in a volcano. The pet screws its eyes up and looks as if it’s about to pass out. I release the pressure on its head and the level sinks down again. I carefully balance the head in my hands so that none of the brain matter escapes. None of this feels revolting as it would do in my waking life. I’m just concerned I don’t spill the brains.

I’ve been working in my husband’s office at the University, even though I don’t belong there. I return to pick up my things but all that is left are two glass vases on a shelf, one in pale green and one in pale pink. I carefully pick them up, hoping I don’t break them and hoping that no-one notices that I am where I don’t belong.

Now I’m in a different part of the office. I’m sitting next to a wall made from one-way frosted polycarbonate. On the other side of the wall 2 women are talking. They can’t see me, but I can see them, if only their silhouettes, their heads bowed near to one another, deep in conversation. I point a mobile at them and a screen zips through millions of faces in a split second, quickly revealing their identity and everything about them. The only thing hidden is their family tree. I’m aware that I’m in a dream and that in my waking life this technology isn’t yet possible so I decide I must be in the future.

I’m staying at an army barracks for a holiday. An acquaintance is there whom I know from my waking life. She’s not a friend because she’s obsessed with work and often brusque to the point of being downright rude. She’s working at the barracks and demands that I stay on an extra 2 days in order to keep her company, even though I hardly know her and I will hardly see her as she’s working all the time. I take the decision to just leave. I need to get home as my little boy is waiting for me there. Another little boy approaches me.

“I’m lonely. All my friends have gone” he says.

“There’s a little boy over there you could play with” I tell him, but he grimaces. “He’s not like me” he says mournfully.

Before I leave the barracks I’m sitting on an armchair in the games room. A lad sits on the arm of my chair, invading my personal space. Then he says, “You’d better move.” I pick up my armchair and try to find a place to put it. But a group of lads are setting up some table football and my chair is in the way. I don’t belong here and I know it. I’m only here to please my workaholic, rude friend.

I decide to go right away but am aware that if I go now I’ll miss the evening meal. I see the little boy again.

“What’s for dinner, do you know?” I ask him, even though I know I won’t be eating, as I’m leaving shortly. I weigh up my options and decide I’m doing the right thing. There’s no point in staying somewhere I don’t feel comfortable just to please someone who doesn’t care about me.

I try to go to the swimming pool. The woman on reception says

“It’s £5. Or £3.50 for father and daughter.”

“I don’t have a father.” I say, sadly.