Richard, Richard, Richard … Every time you enter my dreamscape, you leave confusion in your wake. Okay, last time it wasn’t very confusing, just surprising. This, however, takes the proverbial biscuit. I’m not quite sure how it started, but I can definitely tell that watching Sherlock and planning for this year’s FanstRAvaganza (stay tuned!) just before bed-time definitely took their toll …
To start off with, Martin Freeman and Richard Armitage, in a hallway or something like that. I think Richard Armitage was inside the apartment (as was I and a group of other female fans) and Martin Freeman was out in the stairwell. They both expressed surprise at seeing one another here, in England, because both had been texting earlier in the day, when both had been in New York City or something like that. Just a quick “oh hello, fancy seeing you here, I thought you were abroad!” followed by “I thought the same about you!” and there’s me thinking gosh, I hope they don’t exhaust themselves with all this travelling malarky – America, Britain, then on to New Zealand tomorrow …
Freeman headed off again, and Armitage was left in the mercy of a bunch of us admirers. Not entirely sure how the meeting had come about, but there we were. Think we might have been there to interview him, possibly. Can’t remember whether we did or not, because next thing I can remember, he’s looking at me, not liking my clothes. And when I say “not liking my clothes”, I mean in a fashion police sense. They were, like, so out of fashion, apparently.
A little perturbed, I replied that the jeans were only bought back end of last year, thankyouverymuch, but I could sort of see the point with the top I was wearing, as it wasn’t a favourite of mine either (it’s primarily yellow with some grey stripes). But damn the man for being charming and flirty about it, while at the same time being a complete prick for acting fashion police in the first place!
In a “well okay then, Mr. Fancypants, if that’s how you want to play it!” huff, I boldly stated that if he was so disturbed by my choice of clothing, maybe I should go change. Maybe I should, he replied, and off to a couple of wardrobes we went. One was okay to look in, I said, but mine was too messy so we really shouldn’t look in there. He totally wanted to have a look anyway and offer his opinions on my fashion sense, of which I have very little. “Dude, how f***ing gay are you?!” were basically my thoughts by this time.
And then it got really bizarre.
If I remember this correctly, we got into a bathroom (!) together, so that I could change into some new clothes. Not that I can recall what on earth those clothes actually were, but as you’ll soon see, I was kind of distracted by the heavy-handed symbolism we’re about to encounter. None of which I really know what the deuce they’re supposed to mean.
He was now chopping liver, on a cutting board placed on the bidet (we were in my parents’ bathroom, for all intents and purposes, even though we hadn’t been in neither their nor my house previously). This would be down to a couple of shows watched earlier in the evening: in Perfect … Pies on Good Food, they cut up calves’ kidneys for a steak and kidney pie, and in Hugh’s Three Hungry Boys on Channel 4, they sliced lambs’ liver. So I can see where the offal-chopping came from. Him bleeding from the forehead while doing this, not so much. Probably Sherlock 2.3 is to blame here, actually. Most likely. Another option would be to compare it with Jesus, and the thought of Richard Armitage as Christ just doesn’t sit right. As much as I admire the guy, I don’t consider him the son of God, let’s face it.
I also found, disgruntled, blood in my underwear (blue – yes, for some reason, I did notice colours a lot), but tried not to show it. Because, to make matters weirder, I ended up taking all my clothes off. Before you gasp, yelping excitedly, “OH NO YOU DI-UHN’T!!” … well, no, we didn’t; let’s get that straight.
Suddenly, I became aware that I was, in fact, starkers, and I’m not a fan of my body at the best of times, and here it was on full display in front of HIM. He would not want to see any of that! So I sort of bent forward, covering myself. Suddenly, I had a white towel over my head and shoulders, snapping up another one (a little too small for my liking) and shielding my body with it. Not that he was really looking anyway, but just in case.
And then, somehow, we ended up in the bloody bathtub! Together! “This is all very peculiar,” I thought, trying not to ogle the man too much, or at all, because that would be way too embarassing. “How on earth do I explain this to the Squeeze?” (I believe, at this point, “The List” sprung to mind – and wondering if you could make one retroactively, because if we did have one, Richard Armitage would realistically have been on mine.)
A guess would be that then my brain probably went on a tangent about “well, if he did meet me, I’m pretty sure none of that would happen anyway, because I would think it entirely too weird, which makes The List a moot point, and I’m too self-conscious anyway, and definitely too shy to make such a move”, and then suddenly, like dreamers do, I was no longer in the bathtub (although possibly in a bath robe) and the man had left. Without as much as a kiss, I might add, although we did get close once … I think.
Now, the thought “we’re naked in a bath together, and he’s not seeming to making a move” had occurred to me, followed – of course – by “darn, that means he’s gay after all”, but even stronger was the thought of “I repulse him!” (Again: thank you, Sherlock. Also: I don’t need my self-image any lower than it already is, and it’s already low enough for me to think it warrants therapy, so cheers for that.) Well, even if he didn’t like the look of me in the buff, I figured I might as well enjoy the experience, because it’s never going to happen again. Savour it while it lasts.
But, even stranger, it felt like some sort of test. He had behaved most unexpectedly, and I was tested to see if I was trustworthy, and if I was, he could come back and we could be friends, or something. Would I go blab all about what happened, sell my story to the press claiming I had slept with him, or could he trust me to keep quiet? Haah … kinda failed on that one by writing this, but on the other hand, the whole meeting was complete fiction anyway – just a dream, and who knows what bizarre concoctions our brains can come up with when trying to sift through the events of the previous day?
I remember feeling really embarrassed about having little memorabilia on display in a different room. Not loads, but there were a couple of little figurines or something. Very, very small ones, only about an inch tall, if that, but enough to shout ” ‘ere be fans” if he saw them. And why were a number of nameless, faceless other lady fans in the apartment (can’t get over the apartment bit, I don’t live in one and I didn’t grow up in one)? And “I really need to tell those girls about this, but how do I go about it?” Not to mention being confused as hell over what was going on, throughout. Had he lost his mind? If it wasn’t for obvious dramatic purposes, another question would be “Why me of all people?”
So, blood, water, colours, Richard Armitage the fashionista, and nakedness … in a sort of asexual way. Nothing happened. He didn’t make a move and didn’t seem interested to make one either. I didn’t make a move, because … well, I wouldn’t anyway, and I was too confused about what was happening to suggest it, or even be interested in it. You would have thought it to be an arousing dream, but strangely, it really wasn’t. It was a “wet” dream, sure, but only because of the use of actual water (and blood, bizarrely). And I have no idea what’s it’s meant to symbolise, except that I know where I got a lot of the inspiration from the night before. But still, weirdest bloody dream I’ve had in a long time, especially involving someone famous.