Tag: dream

7 Reasons That a Dream Bath is Better Than an Actual Bath

Hello 7 Reasons readers! I have a confession to make. I love baths, but it turns out that for years I’ve been bathing wrong. I know this because this morning I had an epiphany (or should that be a baptism as I’m writing about baths). I woke up, having dreamt that I’d had a bath, and that dream bath was better than an actual bath. Here are seven reasons why.

Fortunately not my bath.

1. It Saved Time. The major problem with taking a bath – and the reason that most people end up settling for showers – is the amount of time it takes. It takes time to fill them up and you tend to spend a lot of time in them. This takes a substantial chunk out of the day. Dream baths, however, are different. You can spend hours in a dream bath and it’ll only take seconds out of your life. That’s time that you would have been using to sleep anyway. It’s like being given the gift of time but there’s no wrapping paper to recycle, which saves further time. It probably makes time.

2. It Was The Right Temperature. My dream bath was the correct temperature, which is approximately halfway between “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” and “Gah!” Actual baths are always intemperate and usually end up turning that initial cautious toe either red or blue. Or brown, if the bath hasn’t been cleaned.

3. I Was Able To Share It. Sharing an actual bath is seldom the dreamy, romantic pastime it is popularly portrayed as. When sharing a dream bath though, your eyes will already be closed so you can share it with absolutely anyone. I shared mine with my wife who was a reluctant and water-shy cat named Marmalade. Eventually she settled down and enjoyed the bath, right up until the moment that she morphed into a roof-tile and sank without trace at the tap-end, forcing me to eat the rest of the yoghurt alone.

4. Finding The Soap. In your actual bath, you’ll probably find that you spend approximately 8.4% of your time trying to find the soap that you’ve just dropped (which is not as surprising an experience as trying to find it when in prison, but it is still rather an irksome chore). In the dream bath, however, there’s always soap, probably from Lush. And you can bathe safe in the knowledge that it will never, ever have a pubic hair stuck to it. Unless, of course, that’s what you dream about, in which case you’re making my dreams seem positively conventional. And you should never sleep again.

5. No Interruption. My dream bath – unlike my actual baths – wasn’t interrupted by anyone knocking on the bathroom door asking to use the toilet. It was interrupted by a pelican asking for directions to Mr Bobble’s House of Wobbles, but I got rid of him simply by clapping my hands together and shouting “Muffins!” He was far easier to deal with than the desperate and persistent aspiring toilet-users that blight actual baths. Sometimes it seems that pregnant women want to pee just to spite you, and during a long bath, when you’re sharing a house with a pregnant lady, you can find yourself being spited several times. Then that finishes and for the next eighteen years you’ll have a child that will interrupt you in the bath. In my dream bath that did not happen. Obviously, my sleep was interrupted by the child, but that’s a slightly different thing. Probably.

6. No Cleaning. Unlike your actual bath, you’ll never have to clean your dream bath – unless you actually dream about cleaning baths, in which case, thank you, mine was spotless when I got in and I really enjoyed the scented candles and the petals floating on the surface. The meticulously constructed wigwam of bath-towels might have been a step too far though, but you won’t find me complaining. Not least because I can hide in the wigwam while I’m doing so. For other people that don’t clean baths in their sleep, the good news is you won’t have to clean the bath in your sleep. That’s good news.

7. Wake Refreshed And Ready. Nothing prepares you for your day like a dream bath because – like nothing – having a dream bath is not actually having a bath. You will, however, wake feeling refreshed, invigorated and ready for your day; I know I did. You’ll have to spend a large part of that day dodging mirrors and people with a sense of smell, but surely that’s a small price to pay for the amazing time saving and great start to the day. And how close do you really want people to stand to you anyway? With a dream bath, you can keep them at armpit’s length. It’s all win.

August 25, 2011
7 Reasons Not To Elbow Someone Whilst Sleeping

Last week you found out that my girlfriend and I discuss potatoes in bed, well today you are going to discover that she elbows me in the neck whilst sleeping. But this post is not so much for the benefit of her as it is for everyone. The simple fact is this: elbowing people whilst sleeping is bad. Here’s why:

1. Sides. Like most couples, my girlfriend and I have dedicated sides of the bed. I am on the left with 80% of the duvet, Claire is on the right shivering. Now, if like me you never venture from your side of the bed, it means your fellow sleep partner must be breaking bed protocol if her (or his) elbow is making contact with your neck. In such situations you do have to wonder why you had to nominate sides in the first place.

2. Damage. Of course, before you wonder about why you agreed to nominate sides, you need to inspect your injuries. In my case I had to check I was still breathing. Thankfully I was, but an elbow protruding into my trachea made it much harder than it usually is. Still, I am one of the lucky ones. Other injuries you may suffer from being elbowed in bed include: a black eye, a broken nose, a fat lip, a dislocated jaw and a wobbly tooth. And that’s just on your face. If you sleep upside down it could be a whole lot worse.

3. Reflex. Generally when people feel pain, their first reaction is to react. This probably isn’t news. If you are asleep and someone disturbs you by elbowing you it would be very natural for you to instinctively punch them in the face. Satisfying, yes. Sensible, not really. Especially when you consider that a reflex of being punched in the face is to kick out. You could quite easily end up having a pillow fight. Without the pillows.

4. Retaliation. Maybe you manage to avoid reacting instinctively though. Possibly because you are already awake. You can’t let your partner get away with it! They’ve just whacked you in the face. This is when you start turning to dark places. (Unless you switched the light on to work out what the bloody hell just took your head off.) Thoughts turn to revenge. Should you kick them? Knee them? Pinch them? Poke them? Slap them? Chances are you won’t do any of them, but thanks to your partner you stay awake all night thinking nasty thoughts. Then you’re cranky all day. You snap at people. You argue with people. You put salt in people’s coffee. Then, come 6pm, you have no friends left. And all because the lady ~~loves Milk Tray~~ elbowed you up the nostril.

5. Moving. In something of a design flaw, when someone elbows you whilst they are asleep, they rarely move their arm back to its rightful place. As a result you have to move it for them. Which is not as easy as it sounds. Joints were only designed to move in certain directions and usually the only direction it wants to go is further into your eye socket. Generally speaking, the only solution here is for you to move. Probably downstairs to the sofa bed.

6. Dreams. As I do on most nights, I was dreaming in my sleep. Last night’s adventure was particularly exciting as I was unbeaten on 245 and Shane Watson had just pulled a hamstring. It was a pleasant change to his usual trick where he pulls a hamster from a Tesco carrier bag. So there I was watching Shaun Tait jog in from the Michael Jackson Statue End (we were playing in Fulham) when I lost sight of the ball. Next thing I knew it had smacked me in the throat. Which is when I woke up with a start and realised that not only had I been dreaming, but Claire had been the one to spoil my moment with a viciously placed elbow. Pathetic.*

7. Petty. If you have an issue with someone, elbow them in the face when you are awake. That way they’ll know exactly how you feel. Doing it while you are ‘asleep’ is childish and, as detailed above, helps no one.

*When I did get back to sleep, Janet Street-Porter yorked me first ball. One of us were also naked. That’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

April 6, 2011
7 Reasons My Dream Was A Bit Odd

In a last minute change to 7 Reasons proceedings, the post originally planned for today has been postponed in favour of something that happened overnight. A bit like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. Unlike him however, I was the only one to witness it. Which is why I must share mine with you. Now. It was weird.

1. Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! I’m in a house. But it’s also a hotel. And an airport. It’s next to a London train station. It’s supposed to be London Victoria, but it’s not. So I’m in this house – which is also a hotel and an airport – and everything is going well. I am just wandering. Wandering around. Looking at plates and planes and….oh, a playground. I remember now, there was a playground. And then there’s a fire. Like Billy Joel, I didn’t start the fire, but if I don’t get a bloody shift on I’m going to burn to a crisp. (We’ll come to the crisps later). So I start running. And I find myself in a…

2. Room. It’s a bedroom. And it has a window. Two of them in fact. And outside of the window is a roof terrace. And a ladder into the garden. A garden which I can only assume is on the opposite side of the house to the airfield. I open the window and in a move that a contortionist or Anne Widdecombe would be proud of, manage to get myself through the smallest gap in the world. And with it, to safety. We then shift forward to…

3. The Next Day. I can only assume it’s the next day because otherwise I’d be re-entering a house that is on fire. And that would be stupid. And as I had the intelligence to get out the of house fire in the first place, I don’t believe I am stupid in this dream. So, it’s the next day and I am back in the room that I escaped from. There is smoke damage and Dr Howard Denton. You probably won’t recognise this name because he was one of my lecturers when I was at University. What the bloody hell he is doing here, I have no idea. But I don’t seem to care. In fact I am very happy to see him. Because he starts helping me look for my…

4. iPhone Charger. I must have lost it the previous night. Along with my wallet and car keys. Rather brilliantly I find my iPhone charger lying on top of a dressing table. Obviously that’s one of the most important things to do when trying to escape a house fire. Put your iPhone charger on a dressing table so you can come back to get it the next day. You’d do well to remember that. I am so delighted that I’ve found my iPhone charger that I give Dr Howard Denton my crisps. (Told you we’d come back to them). They’re Phileas Fogg range. Irish cheddar with onion chutney flavour. I know I’ve eaten some already because there’s a wooden clothes peg fastening the packet closed. You can say what you like about me, but I know how to keep crisps fresh. This is when…

…I wake up. My girlfriend’s shouting about babies. At least I think she is at the time. In hindsight I am not entirely sure she was. Either way, I show my caring side by asking her if she’s okay. She is, so I fall back to sleep. And I start dreaming again. And I’m back in another house. A house belonging to…

5. Judy Murray. And the only reason I know the house belongs to Judy Murray is because she has just walked through the front door and said, ‘What are you doing in my house?’ For reasons (probably less than seven) unbeknown to me, we go into the garden where I try and explain. Rather splendidly Judy has sofas and chairs in her garden. And I decide to put two chairs together to form a boat. I then explain to Judy that I was merely in her house to work because it was too noisy back at mine. She seems to understand and, for the first time in my life, I begin to like Judy Murray. Which is when everything becomes a blur until I find myself outside Judy Murray’s house. And in through the window of next door, I can see England bowler…

6. Steven Finn. He’s doing the washing up and not looking as tall as I had seen him on TV. To make sure it doesn’t look like I am stalking him, I get down in Judy Murray’s driveway and start doing press-ups. I’m obviously an optimistic dreamer because I do bloody hundreds of them. All while looking at Steven Finn. Until Judy Murray’s front door opens and out walks…

7. Judy Murray. She starts asking me if – while I’ve been living in her house – I have moved the car. Apparently the hedges look a bit bashed up. Now, I don’t remember dreaming about it, but I know that I did drive Judy Murray’s car into the flowerbed. Which is why I lie and deny I have been anywhere near her Volvo. Once again, she seems to understand. Which is when one of my old school friends rocks up and starts telling me how much he loved my film. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I say, ‘Thanks’ anyway. He then mentions he reads 7 Reasons. Which is when I wake up. Hopefully I’ll find out tonight whether he likes it or not.

October 1, 2010
7 Reasons That Twitter Should Replace The Fail Whale

Tharr she blows! It’s the Fail Whale. Don’t panic though, dear reader. This doesn’t mean that our website is down. We’re just fed up of the Fail Whale, Twitter’s iconic image which surfaces whenever the social media network isn’t functioning. Beautiful as it is, we think that it’s time to replace it. Here are seven reasons why.

1. It’s Not Fair To Whales. Whales have enough problems without Twitter tainting them with failure by association. Zeppelins, like Twitter, are cool. Yet they’re already associated with failure. What better way to show that the network is down?

2. Sometimes It Appears Erroneously. Sometimes the Fail Whale appears once, only to disappear when you refresh the screen. This means that Twitter isn’t wholly down, it’s just working slowly. For that eventuality, they require a Fail Snail.

3. Because Twitter Is Down A Lot. Twitter is a huge success and has grown rapidly. Yet their servers seem unable to cope. This constantly frustrates users and, in turn, leads to ill-will towards the network. If they don’t sort their technical issues out soon, they may find themselves becoming extinct. The Fail Dodos would remind them of this.

4. It Doesn’t Suggest A Helpful Alternative. The Fail Whale doesn’t really tell you much. This image though, suggests an alternative and more reliable – though archaic – method of communication to use while twitter is down. Behold, the Fail Mail.

5. The Image Suggests Functionality. The Fail Whale image shows a whale being held aloft by Twitter’s cute little birds. Rather than suggesting that Twitter isn’t working, the Fail Whale image suggests that it is. A far less plausible, and therefore more accurate, image would be the Fail Bird: A large Twitter bird being kept airborne by school of fail whales.

6. Sleep. Because the Fail Whale image is slightly reminiscent of Dali’s Sleep, which is a much more interesting thing to look at. And it’s important to be stimulated while you’re unable to communicate with people.

7. It Doesn’t Go Far Enough. It’s a pretty picture, but the Fail Whale image doesn’t state what is occurring in clear enough terms. This is far more descriptive.

And yes, we did put most of these images together last night, while Twitter was down.

August 6, 2010
7 Reasons To Do Away With Curtains

1. Full Disclosure. All manner of weird and shameful things happen behind curtains: Line dancing; Nazism; geriatric transvestism; the viewing of ITV; this. All of those things are probably occurring on your street right now. If we did away with curtains we’d be forced to behave ourselves, which would be no bad thing.

2. Changing Rooms. Curtains in the changing rooms of clothes shops are a bad idea. It’s an oft quoted statistic that every year four people die in the UK while putting their trousers on. I haven’t died while dressing, but I’ve had a couple of trouser-hopping incidents myself – at home, fortunately. If this hasn’t happened to you, here’s how it works: You’re putting your trousers on, usually you’ve got one leg in, they’re at ankle height and you’re about to put your second leg in when you overbalance and start to fall sideways. Once you start falling sideways with one leg in your trousers, self preservation kicks-in and you instinctively hop in the direction that you are falling, to arrest your fall. But you are so overbalanced – and instinct keeps you hopping – that the only thing that will stop your sideways progress is a solid object (there’s no chance that you can stop by yourself). But curtains are not solid. This means that if a trouser-hopping incident occurred in a changing room, you might find yourself hopping right out of it. Who knows where you could end up? The changing room opposite? The men’s jeans section? Boots? Wherever you ended up, you’d probably feel a bit foolish. Perhaps people would point.

3. It’s Curtains. In films, you often hear the phrase “It’s curtains for you”. This is bad. Curtains = Death. Death = Bad ∴ Bad = Curtains*.

4. The World. In the opening monologue of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Jaques declares that, “All the world’s a stage…”. If this is true, then according to the Home Office Manual of Safety Requirements in Theatres and Other Places of Public Entertainment (1934), all the world requires a curtain. An enormous curtain would block out the sun and would be prohibitively expensive. Not to mention difficult to wash.

5. The Kitchen. I don’t understand why people have curtains in their kitchens. They appear to be utterly without purpose, like the frosted glass windows in aeroplane toilets or the bins in Scarborough. I wonder if there’s something I’m missing. It’s the wrong room for sex. Are people being more secretive about family recipes than I am? What are they doing in there?**

6. Venetian Blinds. There’s a better technology available for obscuring windows; Venetian blinds. They’re more technologically advanced. They don’t require washing. They block out the light more effectively. Okay, so you can get your head stuck in them but, minor indignities aside, they’re so much better than curtains.

7. The Dream. I used to have a recurring dream when I lived in a shared house. In the dream I would walk downstairs in the morning and open the dining room curtains (the dining room overlooked the enclosed back garden). When I opened the curtains I would see, standing there motionless, staring straight back at me, Pierluigi Collina. Then I would wake up, usually in a cold sweat. I haven’t lived in a house with curtains since. It looked pretty much like this, in case you were wondering.

*Maths = A doddle.

** Do you have kitchen curtains? Do you get up to stuff behind them? Please let us know what you do via the comments section (anonymously if necessary).

April 23, 2010
7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Share a Bed With Me

Hi, I’m Marc. I’m half of the 7 Reasons team – the one with the feet. Some of you probably imagine that after a long day on the 7 Reasons sofa, in the manner of Laurel and Hardy or Morecambe and Wise, Jon and I put on our jim-jams and nightcaps and retire to the 7 Reasons bed for some hard-earned slumber. This is not true, please un-think it. The reality is, in fact, more bizarre than that.

I would just like to make it clear that today’s 7 Reasons post is not 7 reasons that you shouldn’t share a bed with our website, and it isn’t 7 reasons that you shouldn’t share a bed with Jon (you’ll probably have your own reasons for that), it’s 7 Reasons that you shouldn’t share a bed with me – sorry if that upsets any plans.

1. Reading. I read in bed. My bedtime reading matter of choice is often a large, heavy, hardback biography or a similarly weighty historical tome. Consequently, holding a book tires my arms – especially when I’m fidgeting (I do a lot of fidgeting) between positions. At some point I will use the nearest person as a book-rest – their head is the most practical place to rest my book as it is at my eye-level. I’m told that this is annoying.

2. Decapitation. I like to have two pillows to myself – one placed on top of the other. In my struggle to get comfortable/block out sound/block out light/keep my head warm/move into the night’s eighty-third position, I often place my head between the pillows. I find this position comfortable. If you wake up sharing a bed with me, you will briefly believe that you are sharing the bed with a headless man. This will startle you. Every time.

3. Radio. I listen to the radio in bed – BBC Radio 5Live’s Up All Night programme – it keeps me informed, educated and entertained while I am failing to sleep. This is fine until 2:40am on Wednesdays. That’s when Cash Peters is on. That’s when the sound of my (poorly) stifled laughter will wake you up. You will probably wonder why tears are streaming down my face; you’re likely to wonder why I’m biting the duvet (this is for your benefit, you’re welcome); you may wonder if I’m having a funny turn; you will definitely wonder if the spare bed is unoccupied.

4. Soft toys. If I should find a cuddly-toy in, or even near, the bed, I feel compelled to tuck it in. If you are not expecting to wake up flanked by a slumbering bear, a recumbent penguin, a sleepy elephant or a dozing handbag (I get confused in the dark), it can be quite disconcerting.

5. Curling. Not everything I do in bed is annoying. I often curl up into a tiny ball under the covers. This hampers my breathing somewhat, so I fashion myself a small air-hole in the side of the duvet and poke my nose out through it. This, I am told, is one of the cutest things in the world. And it probably is, right up until you try to move my painstakingly-positioned sheets. Then you’ll find yourself involved in a life-and-death tussle for control of the duvet. And I always win.

6. Experimentation. During the night many important questions will pop into my head, prompting me to experiment on the nearest sleeping person. What if I poke my finger in her ear? What if I blow in her eye? What if I drip water on her forehead? What if I tie her hair to the headboard and shout “Boo!?” What if I loudly mimic her breathing pattern for several minutes then stop abruptly? What if I coo like a pigeon and flap the top of the duvet around? The possibilities are limitless.

7. Sleep. Eventually, I will wear myself out and fall asleep. Don’t think that’s where the fun ends though. It’s then that I think up entire 7 Reasons posts that make no sense at all and get chased around the house by a horse. As I flee the dream-horse my legs will flail and I may emit noises – I might even say, “Crikey, a horse!” again. I have also been observed barking like a dog and trying to dig a hole in the mattress with my front paws…er…hands. I meant hands. By this stage, you may not know what time it is, but you’ll probably decide that it’s time to get up, which is great as I’d love a coffee.

March 4, 2010
7 Reasons Australians Shouldn’t Make Television

1. The Weather. It must be quite easy to present the weather in Australia, it’s always “nice” there, so you probably don’t have to be too bright to do it. That would explain this weatherman being outwitted by a pelican then.

2. Wipeout Australia. In Britain, we have Total Wipeout, a programme in which pudgy, potato-faced middle-managers from Droitwich lumber around a ridiculous assault course. Wipeout Australia uses the same course, except everything is harder and the machines go at about five times the speed. The people they send around don’t seem any leaner or sportier though, that wouldn’t be any fun.

3. Skippy. In Britain in the ’60s, men whistled at attractive young women in mini-skirts. In Australia in the ’60s, they whistled at kangaroos. Still, they seem quite happy.

4. Advert. Halfway through, so it’s time for a break. Would you like one of these? It’s undetectable, you know.

5. Soaps. The bush, mushrooms, a mysterious pig, a flaming hand – it has to be a soap opera. Obvious, really.

6. Marriage. This sort of thing never happened on Richard and Judy.

7. The dream. Okay, you knew it had to turn up somewhere didn’t you? That classic Neighbours dream sequence which came out of left-field and astonished the audience. No, not that one, this one. The accents are spot on, by the way.

Okay, it’s time for an admission. I was wrong. All of this stuff is awful, yet somehow brilliant. I’ve had so much fun putting this post together that I’ve become convinced that Australians should make more television – perhaps even all of it. As long as I don’t have to watch Paul Hogan again I’d be quite happy. I might even buy a hairpiece.

March 2, 2010
7 Reasons to Run Away and Change Your Name

1. The CIA. You are the co-author of a British-based humour website which gets an alarming number of page hits from readers in Arlington, Virginia (the home of the CIA). This scares you.

2. A Fable. Your name is Alan Lupus. You live in a small, unremarkable seaside town in a semi-detached house on the cliff-top. You have formerly had many close friends and been on good terms with your neighbours. For the last three weeks, however, you have been plagued by a recurring vision that seems to you to be completely real. You have seen it several times, all at different times of day. You look out from your living room window and see that a large, heavy buoy has broken free from its chains near the harbour entrance and, floating around unsecured, is causing a danger to shipping. Every time this apparition has appeared, you have frantically roused your friends and neighbours who have rushed down to the harbour to secure the buoy and prevent catastrophe. On all of these occasions they arrive to find that the buoy is safely moored outside the harbour entrance and everything is normal. Your behaviour has caused such a stir that the story has been printed in the local paper and the townsfolk have now begun to point at you in the street. You are being persecuted by your neighbours and former friends. You have brought shame on your family and, thanks to the story in the local paper going viral on the internet, you are notorious. You realise that your only hope of leading a normal life again is to run away and change your name. You are the Wolf who cried “buoy”.

3. Superb Pseudonym. You have devised the alias Fernando Manchega. Pleased as punch with your own cleverness at having devised a non-de-guerre that contains elements of your own name and one of your favourite cheeses, you run away to start a new life in Belize taking your wife, Mrs Manchega, and your cat, Ignatio Peregrine Constantine Manchega, for company. You are confident that no one will be able to track you down.

4. Jordan. Having been introduced to Katie Price you have unaccountably made a good impression. She is now pursuing you with amorous intent. Run man, run!

5. You Have A Dream. Your name is The Great Alfonso. Your father is a circus strongman and your mother is a bearded lady. You have been born into the circus business and your parents are adamant that it is your calling. Since childhood, however, you have harboured a secret ambition and, in the twenty years that you have been a circus performer, this dream has begun to haunt you more and more. You have now reached the stage that you find circus life unbearable. You realise that, for the sake of your sanity, you must act to fulfil your desire. You run away to join the accountancy firm of Baker, Foot and Slee.

6. You are rightly reviled. You are Jan Moir.

7. Sex. You are a trusted and long established Member of Parliament. The publication in the News of the World of your sexual peccadilloes (which make the previous week’s headline that involved a rocking chair, a gymnast and a spotted-winged fruit bat seem tame,) have caused a hubbub in The House, a furore in Fleet Street and a hullabaloo in your home. Your constituents are appalled, your colleagues are outraged and your wife is murderous. You may have earned the admiration of contortionists and broccoli farmers everywhere but this is not enough to save your career or your reputation. It is time to run away and change your name.

November 25, 2009