Bread dream

A short bread dream last night.

Somewhere in Pimlico, vaguely somewhere in the corner between the Morpeth Arms on Millbank (an establishment which used to be used by CCTA regulars. An organisation long gone) and the Lithuanian Embassy on Vauxhall Bridge Road. A short row of shops in a mainly residential block.

One of which was a sort of fancy baker selling little fancies, some of them seemingly bread flavoured, a bit in the way of what some mid-range restaurants describe as a basket of mixed breads. A very small, old fashioned shop with fancy brown wood shop fittings, run by a couple of middle aged ladies from a cramped space behind the till. Wearing shop coats over their own clothes, some sort of pale, florally patterned cotton. Pale blue on white.

Then I spot a pile of white tin loaves. Clearly the real thing, hard to get in these days of in-store bakeries in supermarkets. Must have.

BH, for once in one of my dreams, not keen. Plenty of bread at home as it is. Quite cross about it.

At which point I wake up, so I will never know whether I fell for it.

Perhaps Freud would have said, following his wish fulfillment theory of dreams, that my dream was a more or less undisguised desire for proper white bread, instead of the brown wholemeal, which is the only sort which I seem to be able to make properly. Or would he have said that the bread stood for something else? Something much more important and shameful than white bread?

PS: pleased to find the moon again, after about a month, when I woke around 0400. Full, maybe south south west, maybe 20° above the horizon. More or less where Bing said it should be.

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