THE DREAMER

I guess I was, even very early on, a dreamer.  Mum said that I was three weeks overdue, was in no hurry to be born, and as soon as I finally made an appearance, I put my thumb in my mouth and went back to sleep.

My Dad, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, gave me an ornament - a small china dog in a kennel - which had the legend above it Dreamy. 

As a child, I dreamed of being famous; that someone would discover my talents for music, for drama, for public speaking, for writing.  My head was full of myths and legends, dragons and castles, and, of course, white knights and princes.  On the school playing field, I kissed Robbie S. and thought he was THE ONE.  He wasn’t. We were five years old; he was horrified and threatened to tell.  He didn’t, but I was scared.

Learning to play tennis, I dreamed of eminence and fortune, but all that happened was that Teddy R. kissed me behind the tennis pavilion after luring me there with an ice-cold Coke.  I didn’t fancy him at all, was horrified and slapped his face.  Poor Teddy, I thought he’d tell.  He didn’t but I was pretty worried then too. Years later he played an important and positive part in my life when he introduced me to my first husband – but that’s a story for another time.

Neville M. had red hair and freckles and fancied me at Intermediate School.  We were only twelve or thirteen.  One day we walked into town together.  I was very nervous as I’d told my Mum a lie about where I was going.  Neville kissed me soundly behind the cricket pavilion in the square.  I enjoyed it and hoped he’d do it again and wouldn’t tell.   He didn’t say a word to anyone.  We stayed friends for a couple of years, but eventually, my young prince rode out of town with his parents heading for the grand lights of the big city in the north.

And then there were the crushes – Robert V. (no kisses – just lingering, sultry looks), my school teacher Mr G (unrequited), the curate at church (completely one-sided) - and probably numerous others that I’ve forgotten about.

I wrote screeds of dreadful, heartfelt, passionate poetry – and a short novel (romantic, naturally).  I don’t have them now thank goodness and I sincerely hope my mother never read them – especially Ode to a Tree.  Yes, really.  I remember gazing longingly at what was probably a very scruffy fir tree and trying to find the beauty in it.

In the fifth-form at secondary school, Jim asked me out.  He was a second-year fifth and had a ‘reputation’.  I was thrilled, but my parents said no and I wept buckets of tears and had a hissy-fit.  But, towards the end of that year his best mate Michael asked me for a date.  My parents knew his parents and it was a church youth-group sort of outing, so I was allowed.  We danced and had fun.  He kissed me in the loft.  Our glasses and our tongues clashed.  I was in seventh heaven!  We dated for nearly a year – all very innocent.  It didn’t last, he wasn’t THE ONE either, but we’re still friends these many, many years later.

We are all dreamers.  Now and then our hold on reality is blurred for a short time while we fantasise happy thoughts, hopes, and ambitions, imagining them coming true and how we will react to that joy.  Ian McEwan, the author of The Daydreamer, says the trouble with being a daydreamer who doesn’t say much is that people are likely to think you’re stupid or dull.  No one can see the amazing things going on inside your head.  To that, I’d add, that daydreamers see life through rose-coloured spectacles, and then, sadly, one day the lens cracks and life steps up, holding out its hand and demanding yours.