I’m anxious. Really anxious. I have to give a presentation to a hall full of people and I really don’t want to. I’m not good with people, or talking so the idea of talking to a room full of people is terrifying to me. Also, I have no idea what the presentation is about.
I’m shaking, sweating and dizzy. The tightness in my chest is getting worse and as I peak through the curtain and see the hall filling up, a wave of nausea hits me. I find the nearest window, open it and stick my head out because no one will let me leave. They know I won’t come back.
As I do my best to breathe evenly, a group of men walk past talking and enter the building that I’m in. They’re here for my presentation. I peer through the curtain again because one of the men looked familiar. After a moment, the men take a seat and I recognise Sean Bean. I dart back to the window to breathe as panic grips me completely. I have to give a presentation and Sean Bean is in the audience. I don’t think I can cope. I tell the nearest person next to me who’ll listen.
“I can’t do this, I can’t. Bloody Sean Bean is here. I can’t talk to Sean Bean!”
“Don’t be daft,” the person says, “you’re not talking to one person, you’re talking to all of them. Are you sure it’s him?”
Not feeling any better, I drag them to the curtain, open it just enough and point out Sean Bean. They are satisfied that it is indeed Sean Bean.
The next thing I know, time has passed. I’m in some sort of restaurant and Sean Bean is there, sat at a small round table with the men he was with earlier. He’s talking away, nodding and looking all lovely like he does. I walk over and as I approach, he looks up and smiles at me. My heart flutters a little.
“ ‘Ey up lass,” he says, his Yorkshireness beaming out of him, “great speech.”
I’m relieved to know that the presentation is over and done with and it went well, “oh, thanks. Glad you liked it.”
“It were great, weren’t it lads?” he asks the other men, who agree, “very informative.”
“Good. Um, what was it about?”
He grins broadly, laughs and tells me I’m funny. I don’t argue.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, feeling oddly calm even though I’m talking to the one and only Sean Bean.
He sits back in his chair, “ask away, lass.”
“Um, can I touch your hair?”
I wake up.
I have no idea why I dreamed about wanting to touch Sean Bean’s hair. It’s not something I’m aware of wanting to do but I suppose if the opportunity presented itself, I wouldn’t say no.
The presence of anxiety in the dream is, I’m pretty sure, a reflection of how I’ve been feeling in real life as my anxiety has been rather bad recently. Luckily, I don’t need to talk to a room full of people otherwise I might take the dream as an omen and wait for Sean Bean to turn up. Hmm, if only…