A few nights ago I dreamed vividly of dancing with Peter Capaldi.
I don’t know why he was there, at my house – not my real house, the house that was my house in the dream. He was a perfect gentleman, pleasant and gracious, and a lovely dancer. We chatted as we danced; I teased him a little, and hugged him and kissed him and told him how wonderful he is. After a while he decided to go for a walk, while I noticed that my neighbor’s house was on fire and went to investigate.
The dream continued. He had promised to come back, but we missed each other. I berated myself for not getting a photo when I had a chance. Later, though, I received a set of photos he had taken of my neighborhood – not my real neighborhood, the one in the dream. They were gorgeous photos, the simplest things made beautiful and important, and I treasured them much more than a selfie.
It was a very long and eventful dream; not for some time after waking did I recall that none of it had actually happened. But it was such a nice dream, I couldn’t be sad. Instead, I smile every time I think of it.
I wonder whether Peter Capaldi engages in dance or photography in real life.