Alan Attwood: All I have to do is dream

I slept with Shane Warne. I’m not proud of this. "Perplexed" is more like it. And if this comes as shocking news to Warney himself, there’s a reason he remembers nothing.

It was a dream. I slept. I dreamed. And in the dream Warney appeared at the front gate of a place I used to live in. He was wearing shorts and had a bottle in hand, like a bloke dropping in for a barbie or long lunch. He claimed to be looking for number 55, which wasn’t close to the number of my old place. Things get blurry after that. Don’t think I invited him in.

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I do recall, though, waking up and thinking: Warney! And not in a meet-your-heroes kind of way. This more bemusement about how, or why, he’d gatecrashed my slumber. Though I did piece some clues together. I’d recently seen a TV ad for his new cologne; also noticed him doing some cricket commentary from England. I hadn’t dwelt on these things; certainly hadn’t asked him to drop in. But next thing I know he’s in my bed asking about number 55.

Some dreams I can let go. Others linger – like, I suspect, the smell of Warney’s cologne. There are countless theories to explain dreams. Some of the worst writing I’ve ever encountered has wrestled with them. (Carl Jung, anyone?) The best I can usually manage is to seek connections: Warney on TV, then Warney tucked up next to me, as it were. An obscure seed gets planted in your thoughts and grows overnight.

I did learn long ago that it’s usually a bad idea to share too much information about dreams. A work colleague, for example, will only ever look awkward should you let slip that they’d snuck into your subconscious – even if the dream is completely innocent and everybody has behaved appropriately. Because what you’re saying is (as the song goes) Mama, you’ve been on my mind. And don’t let Jung – or his mate Freud – get started on mothers.

I welcome most dreams. They’re like a streaming service with no monthly fees. My unscientific theory is that most of us have recurring dreams. Flying dreams. Exam dreams. Mine are variations on the "lost" theme. I’m in an airport and can’t find a departure gate; in a hotel corridor and can’t find my room; in a building and don’t know the way out. Few of these bother me much. I wake, shake my head, and get on with life. But Warney has worried me. Is the subliminal power of TV advertising stronger than I thought?

Then again, it fits the "lost" theme. The Cologne Kid was looking for number 55. Follow your nose, son.