It’s a twenty-five minute drive from the cinema home. I daren’t turn on the radio. I don’t want to wake up from the film. Wasn’t it lovely! The singing, the dancing, the beauty, the stars. They celebrated the dreamers. Hurrah. Let’s hear it for them. And look, anything that persuades the dancer to put on the shoes or the blogger to take to her keyboard to write an overdue post, well, we have to celebrate, albeit quietly.

It’s a long dark drive through lonely countryside home. And there wasn’t one other car this Wednesday evening on the road. Not one. At one point, on a crazy bend, there was an old man walking the road holding a high-vis jacket. Yes, holding it! Not wearing it but I suppose him holding it is one step better than the nights he left the house without it. He awoke me from my cinematic reverie and I left the stars behind me and switched on the radio. A play on Yeats. Perfect.

As I pull into the drive I notice the sky full of stars over our roof and the lights at home and it’s lovely to pause outside in the car taking it all in. It’s what us dreamers do. Himself opens the door to see what’s taking me and so is treated to the lovely January night too. The dogs come up to me for a rub now that the competition for my attention are all asleep. Come on. He has the kettle on.

I let him, there, at the television and take my cup of tea to bed and give a look in at the real little dreamers off somewhere unknown in sleep. I record another reel in my memory banks of the three of them, seven, five and two lying peacefully, safe in sleep. They are so incredibly beautiful. And I’m not even dreaming. That’s what a good film does. La La La Lovely.