I dreamt I was back in my childhood home (never a good start, this), and our cat, or, at least, a cat who was supposed to be our cat but looked very little like any cat I ever owned (dreams are so bloody weird like that) had just had kittens. Kittens! Dear little fluffy kittens!
Despite being newborn, they were at the cutest bouncy open-eyed mobile stage, rather than the little-furry-slug stage of true newborn-kittenhood. And they were all curled up together in a little heap in the middle of the stone-flagged draughty kitchen floor, looking highly picturesque, but, also, come to think of it, cold and uncomfortable. So I fetched a large towel and artfully folded and bunched it into a sort of nest, and carefully laid the kittens on it.
Even as I was picking them up, something went wrong. They started to shrink in my hands. From the size of, well, kittens, they were suddenly the size of mice. By the time I’d got them all onto the towel they were the size of my thumb. And then so small they could’ve curled up on a ten-pence. And then the size of flies.
And then the draught turned into a stiff breeze, that caught the towel and made it flap, and I made a grab for it, and the kittens were gone.
I am still haunted by that image of the tiny, barely visible, flea-size kittens, who were fine until I started meddling, blowing away.
[This dream comes to you courtesy of the Bleedin’ Obvious Workshop, making quality dreams for anyone too busy to see a shrink just now, ensuring there’s no way you can forget about your issues while you wait.]