Last night I dreamed very vividly that I was visiting a blogging friend's house--let's not say who it was, I'll retain some dignity--and I caught a cold. This friend had a servant (yes, a servant, do any of you have servants?) prepare a posset for me to drink in bed, propped up against some very large white feather pillows in a very grand room. The greater part of the dream consisted of this friend telling me in detail the ingredients of the drink: cream (hm), 1 tablespoon of the very best whiskey in the house, spices, then filled the rest of the way up with the poorer whiskey and heated nearly to boiling. I have no idea whether this is a proper posset, let's just say it is the recipe for a proper dream posset. It was served in a thick white mug, and I could actually feel the steam on my face. The posset was delicious (I could taste it in the dream) and salubrious. So salubrious that I woke this morning feeling physically bolstered. Can I attribute it to the imaginary drink? Perhaps.
Why did I dream this? A number of months ago, readers offered cold remedies for my consideration. That has been hanging about in my subconscious. And it may have had something to do with the fact that I've been reading a combination of Henry James and Mary Burchell, and have been writing a great deal as well, and so am thinking in terms of descriptions of things, and then too I've been thinking romantic, Victorian thoughts during my waking hours. Perhaps in one of these books a servant, on behalf of a solicitous hero, even brought a posset to a girl with a cold, I can't remember.
I ask you, have you ever dreamed of this strange inchoate interwebs shadow-world? Has it ever been made corporeal during your sleeping hours, have the half-faced people ever come, fully realized, to life? It's never happened to me before last night, and I'm not sure whether I like it entirely.