Wednesday, 13 September 2000.
Dream: a bus pulls up parallel to the one I'm on. It's full of Sunday Sport models in tight red and white t-shirts saying 'I Get It Every Day'. They make me unhappy so I stick my arm out my opened window and in through theirs and steal a model's makeup bag. But when I unzip it it contains only the contact lenses of a girl called Debbie and I feel really bad, but the bus has pulled off so I can't put them back.
(Vat zis means: You beeleevf models are myopic. Alternately, you realise finally zey are human like you.)
Then I'm inside and there's a girl there who's a giant. She's a writer I think, striding around, talking about Frieda Kahlo. I'm holding a book with a red cover: it's a book of her, the young genius, in conversation with Salman Rushdie. She's like Zadie Smith, young, beautiful, brainy, the toast of the town. I wander off holding the book.
(Zees reveals anxiety about your status as a writer. In dream she ees giant, you are not.)
Upstairs there's a cluster of men waiting to use the loo. There's a boy there, very pretty, with blond hair and a black eye. He's wearing a white crop top and his tummy is distended like a pregnant lady's. 'That's not art', he said dismissively, pointing at the book. 'That's not truth. This is.' Then he tapped the arm of one of the men waiting for the toilet, and started to fight him. Then he lurched back, fell into another man, and started to fight him too. They were both hitting him really hard and all I could do was think 'art hurts' and wait for it to stop.
(Zees is unclear. I suggest you veesit ze Delia's Dream Analyser again, for assistance.)