The last leg of my 20hr journey here saw me driving from San Francisco airport through the winding Californian mountain roads to this many-mirrored cabin in Boulder Creek. In attempts to blast through the jet lag I stayed awake for as long as I could, and awoke at 3am local time. After half an hour or so I managed to fall asleep again.

Then I got a dreadful message calling me back to the UK…an unavoidable work emergency. As galling as it was, I booked the first flight home. It would only take a day or so of my time, then I could return and complete my holiday, and I’d be able to claim the expense back as well.

This will make little sense but, in dealing with the emergency, I somehow contrived to get cream into the inner workings of my laptop and my phone. In my position as a “modern man” I’ve come to rely on both — I would have to salvage them if I were to survive. So I carefully dismantled the items and dried their creamy components whilst, around me, the maelstrom of a production in full swing continued.

Gadgets back in working order, and work disaster averted, I caught up with a colleague and realised I had completely neglected to book a return flight to the US. A quick google suggested I’d have to wait the best part of a week before I could travel back! Then a creeping fear struck me…I had absolutely no recollection of how I had travelled from Boulder Creek back to San Francisco airport before flying back to the UK. I was certain I hadn’t driven myself, which would mean my rental car was still in Boulder Creek. But for the life of me I couldn’t recall a taxi ride or any other form of transport. Those couple of hours of memory simply didn’t exist.

My diaphragm knotted. A rising silent panic.

Other colleagues joined us in trying to solve the mystery. Did I get an Uber? Did my host give me a lift? A bus? Train? Hitch?

I was getting desperate. I hadn’t been drinking so why a blackout? I simply couldn’t fathom what had happened. Like in a film, I said out loud to everyone “I must be dreaming!”, and started violently slapping myself in the face. Nothing. Save pain, and anguish.

I looked around the room and could tell from the faces before me that everyone thought I was mad. Another colleague took me to one side and said it’s okay, you’re here now, it doesn’t matter what’s gone before. That helped calm me, and we talked at length about the great fear of losing your memories.

 

Then, when we finished talking, I woke up.

 

I’ve never before dreamt that vividly, and in one sense it was a huge relief to realise I was right: I had been dreaming. But it also brought into focus my inherent dread of new places and of new people.

So, as I try to assert myself into the world out here in the west, may it comfort those of you facing your own fears and anxieties to know you are not alone. And that I’ll gladly hold your hand through it, should you ever wish for me to do so.