I had an unsettling dream between 7 and 9am this morning (I know because I woke up at 7, checked the clock and thought “not yet”). It was one of those dreams where you find yourself trying to claw out of sleep to escape it and then once you’re awake it takes you a good couple of hours to shake it off.
Mum and I were eating breakfast and I kept sighing and she asked why. I said I was trying to shake this dream off and started describing it to her.
“I was in this huge, dark house – it was like that house we saw, I can’t even remember what suburb it was -”
Straight away, she nodded. “Yep. Petersham. With the weird neighbours.”
I love that my mum and I have so much shared knowledge and history that she always (well, almost always) knows exactly what I’m talking about. In that case, it was a house we looked at renting before we moved out of the inner west. Must’ve been 8-10 years ago, and we were there for five minutes.
(I’m really glad we didn’t rent that house. I remember walking around it, trying to talk up its positive features (we were desperate for a new place to live). If it made that much of a negative impression on both of us in such a short time there must have been something deeply wrong with it.)