Why Are My Dreams Full of Dicks?

So, this was my dream last night.

I was a journalist working with a colleague from Galway in the west of Ireland. He took offence when I described his home place as a small town. He thought I was being disrespectful. He was adamant that Galway is a proper city, home to half a million citizens at least. As big as my home city, Belfast, if not bigger. What was my problem, he wanted to know. Did I have something against westies?

What sort of dick was I?

You’re the dick, I told him, not me. A double dick, in fact. A dick for not knowing that Galway is Hicksville compared to Belfast and a dick for caring.

Things got ugly. A third person had to step between us to prevent the argument from getting physical.

I woke up annoyed and agitated, and I found myself, at half past four in the morning, reaching for my phone to check the population of Galway. It’s home to about 80,000 people if you’re interested. Nowhere near the half a million claimed for it by dicky dream-journalist. And certainly nowhere close to the population of the great, majestic metropolis that is Belfast.

I wanted to climb back into that dream and let him know how wrong he was.

Ha! Who’s the dick now, small-town guy? Up your hole with a big jam roll!

Here’s the thing — I’m not a journalist, and I’ve only been to Galway a couple of times ever. I think it’s a nice town. Or city if you prefer. I couldn’t care what size it is compared to Belfast. So why am I getting into a fight about that in my dream?

This wasn’t the only time, either. Lately I’ve been getting into all sorts of rows in my dreams, usually with people who are acting like dicks.

But often, the biggest dick in the dream is me.

The night before last, I held up a whole line of traffic when I stopped my car in the middle of the road and went into a shop. I couldn’t understand why people were so mad when I came out. Drivers yelled at me and pumped their horns. I yelled back and made rude hand gestures. Someone called me a dick. I said yeah, well, you’re a bigger one with bells on.

I’m still talking about my dreams. I didn’t literally block traffic. In my waking life, I’m a considerate driver. And I rarely cause accidents when I’m in bed.

You’ll have to take my word on this, but I’m not usually a person who gets involved in arguments. Maybe with my wife occasionally, but that doesn’t count. Everybody does that. Not with my wife, obviously, that would be chaos.

My son has even voiced the opinion that I’m something of a conflict-avoider. That worried me a bit, as I used to earn my living as a mediator and conflict resolution trainer.

May as well tell a roofer he’s afraid of heights. Thanks, son.

What I’m saying is that if you asked my friends and family to describe me in one word, ‘argumentative’ wouldn’t feature at all. ‘Dick’ might, admittedly, but not the kind of dick who gets into fights. More the kind of dick who tries to fix something and ends up making it much worse.

Like, removing the backboard from the cupboard under the sink to fix a dripping tap and then not knowing how to get it back on again. Now the tap still drips and the cupboard looks a mess. That kind of a dick.

I might be using the word dick too much. Don’t worry, I’m nearly finished.

Who or what is to blame for this upsurge of aggression in my dreams? In the absence of a better theory, I’m blaming the new electric blanket we’re using in our bed. I think it’s making me too warm at night. I think my dreams become more vivid and aggressive when I overheat.

The problem is my wife loves it. I know she won’t give it up without a fight. I have a choice, therefore. I can accept the increase in confrontations in my dreams or I can go head-to-head with my wife over this.

I’ll probably stick with the dreams. I’ve got a much better chance of winning those rows.