Sean has spoken

Had a really weird dream last night. Let’s see…

I’m walking down the A31 dual carriageway, the one that takes you from Ringwood to the A338 to Bournemouth if you turn left at the Ashley Heath roundabout. Odd that I should be walking down there, seeing as how I live in Hong Kong. But anyway, there are hardly any cars ont road, even though it’s a bright, hot, sunny day. I realise I’m ont wrong side o’ road and decide to cross over. I seem to have jumped, film-edit style, from the chunk of road running up to the roundabout ont flyover, to the strip of road just after the roundabout. Anyway, I digress.

I’m looking out fert traffic, but there dunt seem to be any. So I step out and walk across empty lanes o’ dual carriageway. As I get to’t central reservation, covered in grass and gravel, I can see the Little Chef / Travelodge building, so aye, I’ve jumped down the road a bit. Anyway, I look at the next two lanes, and after waiting about two minutes, all traffic again clears up.

As I get half-way across these two empty lanes, I spot two men walking. They see me and stop. They’re wearing black trousers and white short-sleeved shirts, wi round, flat white and black hats, and their shirts have wee black bars on their shoulders. Yeah, they’re coppers. Me shoulders sag. They’re waiting fer me to get to em, then they’ll start wi the “why didn’t you use the subway or flyover walkway thing” routine. Bugger.

So I near em and stop, knowing it’s less hassle than pretending they’re nowt to do wi me and just walking off. The shorter one looks at me and smiles, in a “thanks fer not drawing this out on such a hot day, love” kinda way. He looks familiar.

But it’s the other one that opens his mouth. An’ I’m still looking at the shorter one, trying to remember him, cos now I know I know him.

“’Ey,” says the taller one, “what you doing?” in that indignant are-you-stupid kinda way.

And I know that voice. Who doesn’t? I look at him. Yeah. It’s him alright. He’s stood there, sweating into his white police shirt that fer some strange reason says ‘Manchester Metropolitan Police’ in small letters on the black bar o’ the breast pocket (do they really have black bars on their breast pockets anyway?), even though we’re about 300 miles south. He’s looking at me like we’ve met many times before. It’s Sir Sean of Bean. And due to some dream-like parallel-universe-type sense, I don’t find owt wrong wi him stood there in a police uniform. And – believe me – there’s absolutely NOWT wrong wi him in a police uniform, if you see me point, girls.

Anyway, I look at him and say, “Alright, mate? Just trying to get across – do you know how far you have to walk to find a way to cross this bastard road?” in a friendly tone. He just nods, and the smaller one opens his mouth. Except he’s not so short now. And he’s Nick Moran. Yeah, I know, but he just is, alright?

“Well you could have been knocked down,” he points out, in a rather broad London darn-sarf accent. I nod.
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” I say, but Sean interrupts.
“Yeah, she knows, but she dunt give a shit. She’d cross anyway. Where you off to, anyroad?” he then asks me. And bugger me, but his voice is like hot chocolate on a cold stormy night.
“To town,” I say. Even though I’m walking int wrong direction, and have no bag, no belongings, no money or in fact owt with me.
And he says, “Well then, we’d best get you there, eh. Dread to think what’d happen if we just left you to it.” He half-turns and chucks a thumb at the police car parked in the bus stop by the Shell petrol station. The one wi the post box at the side, you know the one.

“Yeah, alright,” I say, and we all walk back to the car and get in. Nick’s driving, so I sit behind the driver’s seat. Sean’s sat int front passenger seat, and as the car sets off he half-turns to look at me int back seat.
“So what’s gone on wi yer Mac, love?” he asks. “Is it knackered?”
“Eh?” says I. “Er, no. Why?”
“Well, you’ve not written fer a bit. Nick were getting a bit nervous. Thought you’d given up like.”
And I’m sitting there, wondering what in the present-continuous Hell they’re talking about.
“Er… I do write. Fer me blogs, you know.”
“Oh.” He turns back round to see where the car’s heading. I look out the front windscreen past him, expecting us to be on the A31 going toward Ringwood. Except we’re not. We’re on Chester Road, in Manchester, and we can see the Old Trafford ground rush past. And Sean looks through’t window and says, “That Glazer, eh? What a cunt,” as if to himself, and then turns in his seat and looks back at me. “Well, here we are.”

Nick stops the car and I think I should get out, not that I know what I’m doing here. I slide out of the huge great Vauxhall Omega, and Sean gets out of his side. Nick stays in the car, I think. Sean walks round the car to me and stops. He chucks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “Yer flat’s over there.” I look past him and see a road sign, stuck int middle o’ gravel car park. It shows Boundary Park to the left, and the University of Manchester to the right. And then he says, “Now think on: when you get in, turn on that Mac and give ‘em Hell. Can you do that?”
Well who could say no to him? So I just nod dumbly, not actually sure what he’s talking about. Nick powers down his window and pops his head out.
“I’ve got a great idea, love. How about broken ribs?”
I stare at him, half-expecting him to get out ‘t car and provide me wi some, but Sean looks at him.
“Yer daft a’peth – you can’t give writers inspiration like that. You have to wait and see. Besides, she’s been thinking about a story wi no fighting in it. Haven’t you, love?” he says, winking at me.
Suddenly everything feels really surreal, and I’m realising it’s all a dream. I’m raging – what’s this all about, and why is it when I finally get a dream about Sean, it has to feature clothes too? No Sean Porn? No green uniforms? Bloody hell.

So anyway, the car makes this odd beeping sound and I look at it. Only it’s not the car now, it’s me alarm clock telling me to get me arse out o bed to get to work. I forget everything and get up, showered, ready, and leave the flat.
I’m waiting fert bus to work, and I’m thinking “did I dream, or do I just think there’s something niggling at me attention?” I’m just starting to remember it, and bits come flooding back. Then I get ont bus and turn on me iPod, and am happily sucked into the brainless world o’ listening to music. The track ends. For some reason I have an mp3 of Sharpe shouting “well get a shift on, man!” (cue embarrassed ahem noises). It plays loudly in me ears. As soon as I hear it, I have to turn off iPod and think hard to remember the dream that’s just perched slightly out o reach.

And suddenly there it is. And with it comes a perfect plot for another Sharpe fan-fic. So I start laffing ont bus, and people are staring at me. I pretend it’s me iPod sending me into fits. But it’s not that at all.

I realise I’ve finally gone over the edge. I mean, dreams about actors telling me to write another fan-fic? And what to put in it an all? I’ve lost it. Big Time.

But then… I’m still thinking about smashed ribs and a short story wi no actual battle in it…

Tags:
Ringwood ~ Bournemouth ~ Manchester ~ police ~ Uni of Manchester ~ Boundary Park ~ Sean Bean ~ Nick Moran ~ Apple ~ iPod ~ dreams ~ fan-fic ~ Sharpe ~ Chester+Road ~ Old Trafford ~ SeanPorn