I fell back to sleep after a delay early in the morning and dreamed that I was travelling with my baby girl to spend some time in a cottage shack owned by friends while my husband went elsewhere to prepare for a separate holiday that he planned to take with other friends.
For some of the journey we followed one another in our cars, though I was driving his car and fearful lest I damage it. We curved through narrow lane ways and at one point he indicated I should stop and wait for him. I misunderstood and drove further ahead.
When I realised that he had gone I drove back and forth trying to find him. I stopped in a park reserve and sat in the back seat of the car to help the baby with some food. My baby was smart. She could talk. I told her where we were going then saw my husband in the distance his arms loaded with groceries. I went to get into the front car seat and found a stage man in uniform sitting there with the door wide open. He was taking down details from the car's dashboard.
'What are you doing here?' I asked. He said nothing and went on as if to ignore me.
'Get out' I said and he obeyed. I watched him cross the reserve and worried that he might be a potential thief. I drove to the other side of the reserve and crossed a tiny bridge. I was looking for a way out and stopped to ask for directions. A woman in a uniform, the same as that of the man in my car, told me where I might go.
'What was that man doing in my car?' I asked
Elisabeth," she said. I was shocked that she knew my name.
'Now we know all your business. We collect the data for identification purposes, for our market research.'
For the first time in my life the meaning of the word 'market' in this context leapt into my brain. Market research, research into how the market is going. I knew but did not know.
My baby daughter and I eventually found our way to the cottage/shack of our friends. It was rustic in the extreme. Bare dirt floors, cupboards hewn out of tree trunks, every thing rudimentary. I put the baby into a high chair and scavenged around to find food. There was plenty of it, but most of it stale.
Visitors began to arrive, locals from the township nearby and I felt embarrassed.
'Sorry. I'm still in my dressing gown.'
No one minded. These folks seemed like simpletons, though one of them collected scripts from small children and asked my daughter despite her baby status to write a letter to him.
When he came back later in the dream, I was impressed that my daughter had written him a letter, one that I had not seen. I felt proud of her. Then another of these visitors, the friend of the friends with whom my husband was travelling came over and openly wept at his fear of the election results.
What if his preferred candidate did not get up? The other team would destroy his farm and his neighborhood.
My brother sppeared from nowhere.
'You cry too easily," he said. 'And you show your feelings too much.'