I'm at a dinner party. Michael's house (rich place, expensively dressed guests). Attracted by the superficial glitter. Impatient to eat, but first need to go to the toilet. This lies at the top of the house in a large attic room.

Here is a long, medieval banqueting table. At either end arc two plates of steaming hot food. A white mouse is running from one meal to another. Nibbling and retreating.

I go to the toilet. Can only manage half a piss. Return to table feeling anxious. I accidentally spill a bottle of tomato ketchup over my dinner jacket. The startled mouse runs away. I begin to cry very intensely.

Gradually I look up to see Carl Jung seated at the head of the table. Wearing an immaculate tweed jacket, carpet slippers and holding a pipe. Very much the benign Swiss patriarch. He looks deeply concerned.

I begin to chant. "Mickey Mouse hah hah hah! Mickey Mouse hah hah hah!"

Jung places a sympathetic arm over my shoulder and says, "For God's sake stop recording your dreams. Wake up and accept your mouse!"

I dry my eyes. Jung disappears. More plates of food are on the table. All have been half-eaten--then abandoned. Now I want to socialise with the guests downstairs.

EDITOR'S NOTE

This is unique--a dream urging the dreamer to quit dreamwork!

Who is the mouse Jung wants Price to accept? It's sampling upper-class pleasures, just as Price is. As opposed to a proper writer, who of course starves in an attic. Just small bites... but they do both want a taste.

--Chris Wayan

SOURCE: The Tiger Garden: A Book of Writers' Dreams by Nicholas Royle, 1996, p.196

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