Living the Dream

Last night I dreamt I was dying.
And it was one of those dreams that, when you wake up, you think that what you were dreaming about is actually happening, or has happened, in real life.
As traumatic as it was, however briefly, when I did wake up and realised that I wasn't in fact dying, I very quickly became appreciative of the fact that I was able to have a lie-in - a lie-in under a duvet covered with Egyptian cotton sheets when friends are at work.
I appreciated other things too: being able to go to a kitchen and make breakfast and a cup of tea myself, and being able to go back to bed to have them; being able to look out of the window and see the sky; having a toilet and hot water and being able to wash clothes in a machine that does it for you; having feet and hands that work that I can use to run and walk and play tennis and to write this; and being able to drink wine and eat nice food and listen to music.
But it was mostly the lie-in I appreciated - because when I woke up I had nowhere I had to be, nothing I had to do. And also, because I wasn't dying.


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