Last night I had my single layered anxiety dream: I was on the train and I missed my stop because I had spread all of my stuff all over the train carriage (This time books, often it’s clothes and my cat, and zebra finches). I am near Paris but because I take so long to collect all of my stuff i end up somewhere like Kings Lynn or Great Yarmouth.
A young girl sitting around the table asked how I could possibly work without my work being classsified and put into sections. I panicked and responded defensively: “Actually I’m doing a PhD and it’s a bit different from ‘A’ Levels (little lady).
We went past a waiting room full of meatballs resting on the bench. I just managed to stuff my books into my wicker bag, a bulbous moses basket with biros, eyeliners, and in the past knitting needles sticking out of its inflated puffa fish belly.
I got out of the train and saw an island on the river populated with about 20 black labradors (sealpups?) which I knew was the winning piece from the Saatchi show. Oh lord I have to get a taxi to the studio now.
