And then there was the time when I dreamed that I was in the middle of preparations for a wedding — my sister’s, I think, but not the marriage she actually had, close to two decades ago. She was getting married to the same man, I think, although both he and she only made cameo appearances at best in the dream. Instead, it was a wedding that was happening that afternoon, and guests were still arriving at the airport, which just so happened to be directly outside the house we were all in, which was somehow a country house in the middle of a shopping mall that, of course, doubled as an airport. Such things happen in dreams.
The part I remember most clearly, though, was being told by one of the guests I had just met — a man who looked like no-one as much as Lou Ferrigno, thank you subconscious — that it would be rude not to drink the milk that had been provided for me. I drank the milk, and it tasted amazing: refreshing, full, creamy, the whole thing. I can remember the taste even now, awake with all the other parts of the dream either fading or entirely gone. I feel as if, the entire day, I’m going to be haunted by how great this imaginary milk tasted.