Dreams, doctor?

I am hovering / floating in the air, high above a snow covered landscape looking down on winter scene that might be a Nordic country (not that I’ve been to any). Maybe it’s Alaska. There is a large forest of firs to the north east. To the north and west there is vast snow field with what might be a frozen river heading off to the horizon; hills to west.

There’s a snow covered raised area below me. It has the proportions of a postage stamp but it is huge, the size of a football field. There are spectator stands around three sides of the raised area. The snow is pristine, without a mark upon its unbroken surface which, for some reason, is significant. Something will happen on this virginal space, something unpleasant, like a sacrifice maybe or public executions. There is an air of foreboding about the scene. Don’t know why.

A group of skiers appears from the river valley. They are dressed in huge parka jackets with hoods and fur fringes. All are dressed in white jackets except one who is wearing a blue parka. The group ski onto the raised playing field. They ski backwards and forwards, round in circles, up and down, all over the formerly pristine surface. They are obviously intent on messing up the perfection of the untouched area. As they plough through the snow they churn it up revealing a sickly looking yellow substance below. It has the colour and consistency of custard but it could just as easily be puss spilling out of an infected wound.

As they totally destroy the surface shouts, wails, horrified angry cries break the silence. The skiers stop, look beyond the stands then at each other. They seem satisfied that they have achieved what they came to do. They speed away pursued by irate, evil blond haired people – the Midwich cuckoos, maybe, grown up into their mid-twenties.

The skiers head up the river which is frozen solid. Beneath the thin covering of snow there is jet black ice, as smooth as glass, thick and strong. They ski as fast as possible pursued by the Miwdwich adults who are demonically angry. The river opens up into a vast frozen lake. The skiers head for the shore. Upon reaching the frozen water’s edge each skier throws him or herself into the tufts of frozen bracken style grasses bordering the lake. They vanish into / underneath the land. Their pursuers are incensed.

I’ve become one of the skiers, maybe the guy in the blue parka. I leap into the bracken but I don’t vanish. I’m about to be discovered by the evil pursuers – I think they’re human flesh eaters by this time – when I’m grabbed from beneath the earth and pulled down to safety.

I find myself in what looks like an underground caravan or mobile home. It has formica topped tables and cheaply veneered walls. There is a double bed recessed into one part of the caravan. I take refuge there, naked beneath a huge pile of brightly coloured, patchwork blankets. I'm sharing the space with a young woman. We watch Dr Who on a portable black and white television while drinking hot chocolate and tea, eating cheese and tomato sandwiches. Go figure.