I Dream of Jacky

I rarely remember my dreams, probably because you only tend to remember them if you wake up in the middle of them.

But this one I did. Bizarre, bizarre dream.

Was in an airport waiting hall. Of all people, Jacky Cheung (張學友) was seated some seats away. Got all fanboy-like and went to fawn over him. Pulled out loads of newspaper cuttings, programs from Snow Wolf Lake, etc. from my bag (don't ask me why I was carrying them; it's a dream, remember?) for him to sign. He was nice and friendly and obliging. Dug in my bag for something else, couldn't find it and got more anxious.

His wife came along and said his daughter had hurt herself. I offered to help because I am, after all, medic-trained (this fact is real). The little girl had a cut on her elbow. For some reason my first-aid consisted of dunking her in a kitchen sink full of water, with the faucet still running. Kind of like a baptism, but in a kitchen sink. In fact, the sink looked very familiar and rather like my own. But it couldn't be, because it was at the airport, right? (No point thinking too much about it; if you try to figure out dream geography you'll only go insane)

So yeah, the little girl turned out all right, and Jacky was very grateful. I dug out more shit for him to autograph, he happily did so. We talked; what about I have no clue.

It was a good dream.

Then my phone started blaring the theme song of 2046 (yes, that's my ringtone), and I woke up muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

It was some tele-marketing fucker talking about vacation clubs.

Double fuck.