This morning my trio had a Coffee Concert at the Wigmore Hall. It meant being in central London at 9am for our rehearsal, so last night I went to bed quite early, in the hope of being well rested. But this strategy rarely works, and as well as sleeping badly, I had one of my anxiety dreams, roughly number 5,347 in a series which has run parallel to my career.
In last night’s dream, I was out shopping when I suddenly realised I should be on a plane, crossing the Atlantic to take part in a concert tour. So I rushed to Heathrow (which was magically right there in Oxford Street). I boarded the plane with minutes to spare. My colleague Anthony was comfortably installed with piles of DVDs to watch on the flight. I sat down breathlessly beside him, and then suddenly realised I had none of the things I’d need for a concert tour: no passport, no luggage, no music, no clothes – nothing except my handbag. I jumped up in alarm and tried to get off the plane. But it was already moving down to the runway. Suddenly night fell. The plane took off, and with no transition we were out over the Atlantic in the dark. Everyone was asleep, and only I was still awake. I felt very distressed, and woke in a panic.
The strange thing is that I am not a disorganised person in this respect, and I don’t really need to be reminded to plan ahead. Yet my dreams never cease to remind me that things could go wrong at any moment.