Series: Dreams #3

The thing that didn't occur to me when I decided to set this series up was this very (now) obvious fact: I can't control when and what I dream about, nor if I remember them - thus why this series has been very tumbleweed-ish for the last however-long. It's not that I've stopped dreaming; I simply forget the dream upon waking up.

SO. Here's what I'm gonna do today: refer to an old dream. But I can assure you that, in spite of the fact that this dream happened about two years ago, it is still entirely relevant because, well, travel in London is getting awful.

The Milking-a-Chicken-With-a-Marshmallow Dream

You should know first of all that I hated school. The fact that I am trying to get home from school in this dream would surely give Freud reason enough to twirl his beard around his fingers and make "Mmm-hmm" noises. We'll ignore Freud today, though. (And all other days, as a matter of fact.)

I used to get the bus home, but for some reason today I decide to head to the train station. Only, when I get there, I find that they've introduced a new ticketing system. Lined up next to the platform is a row of chickens, sitting on perches. I go up to one of the chickens, and find a little plaque on the perch, reading, "If you have never milked a chicken before, press here to call for assistance." I look around me at all the other commuters, happily milking their chickens as if they've been milking chickens for years, and I feel foolish.

"Well I'm not going to admit that I don't know what I'm doing," I think to myself, and I take hold of the marshmallow sitting beside my chicken, and copy what all the other commuters are doing: I position the marshmallow beneath my chicken. Only, when I do it, nothing happens. My chicken does not lay a ticket. It just sits there and blinks up at me, probably thinking how useless I am.

In spite of the fact that I had not called for assistance, a member of staff then approaches me, takes the marshmallow from my hands and says, "What you need to do is hold the marshmallow directly under its nipple." (Do chickens even have nipples? I have no idea.)

"Uh-huh," I say, as if I really plan on doing this again sometime.

"And after a few seconds," he goes on, "the ticket will come out."

We wait a few seconds, and then this pale brown foam comes out of the chicken's nipple(?), and settles on the marshmallow. For one perverse second it reminds me of trifle, and then it quickly reminds me of chicken shit.

The man passes me the marshmallow, and there I am: with my ticket, ready to travel.

Chicken poop on a marshmallow.