Nightmare!

I had a lovely few days back on my home turf in Highgate, where I lived from 2001-2007. My friend's first floor flat has huge French doors out onto a balcony with a wonderful view. Between the delicate tracery of deleafed branches you can see all the central London landmarks like the Eye and the Gherkin, sparkling at night just like a glittery Christmas card.

I had been warned that the boiler was a bit dodgy. It worked fine up to about 17 degrees C, and then it overheated and had to be turned off. I managed OK, though. I wasn't in a lot during the day, and 17C is warmer than at Mr G's house (when I got back today, it was 9C in my bedroom!). I also enjoyed sinking into my friend's gently moulding memory foam mattress, but the first night I was there, I awoke at 3.35 am having had a terrifying nightmare.

Yes, I know other people's dreams can be boring to listen to, but I want to note this one down as it's the first nightmare I have had for months. I was in West London, high up in a building, when I heard an explosion and saw thick black smoke pouring from some factory or industrial building. I went home, grabbed my passport and netbook and managed to find a taxi just as a thick fog of choking fumes was starting to spread over Hayes and Hillingdon.

"Head south!" I told the cabbie, and promptly got on my phone and rang Mr G, the next door neighbours and my friend K and told them to leave the area fast as I knew the fumes were deadly poisonous and if they didn't get away, they'd die. Then an agonising thought hit me. Poor Flad was going to die. I hadn't been able to find him and I knew he would be choked to death. I woke up crying my eyes out. And coughing. I think I can blame my friend's feather duvet and pillows for that, as I am slightly allergic to feathers.

Last night I went to a pub down the road where an old aquaintance, Anita, plays the piano on Sundays. I got there around 9.15 and the bar was empty, but by 10pm people were filtering in. There was a group of young women who were part of a theatrical troupe and one of them, called Charlotte, had a remarkable voice. She can't have been more than 22, but she had the voice of an angel, strong, pure and bang on the note. It sent a thrill through you. The others all had good voices, too and, along with everyone in the pub, we belted out songs from the shows till 1.30am!

I was starving when I got in and made tea and toast and staggered to bed around 2.15, but couldn't get to sleep. It was getting light by the time I dozed off. Next thing I knew, it was gone 10am. The room was cold and I turned on the boiler. Nothing. Turned on the tap. Cold water. Oh dear. I rang the plumber, texted my friend who was still in Madrid, then headed for home and was so sleepy I almost left one of my bags on the train from Paddington to Hayes. I was heavily laden, having been to a Christmas Fayre on behalf of the animal rescue charity that another friend works for, and bought jam, cards and books. I'd also bought a pair of purple velvet trousers from a charity shop.

This afternoon, I was so knackered that I slept from 3 till 5.30 and can hardly keep my eyes open now. But that dream... Perhaps it is telling me that Mr G's area is toxic for me. Indeed, since I've been here my creativity has dried up and I have just turned down the chance to write two compilation books for kiddies about fairies and dinosaurs, simply because I haven't got a warm, quiet, undisturbed place to write them. Roll on the New Year and a new home!