IHAD always assumed that my subconscious was a dark dangerous place – a bottomless pit in which my childhood ego fought daily for control of my life against the evil forces of desire and repression. However, this week, to my horror and profound disappointment, I discovered that it is not deep or dark at all. When I throw myself into the void, I land abruptly on a flashing multicoloured Seventies disco dance floor with classic cheesy listening playing at full volume.
It happened midweek. I've been practising breathing and relaxation techniques recently in the attempt to 'commune with myself', and I find that simple repetitive tasks help me achieve the degree of detachment required. I was in the bathroom, strippin
g wallpaper and started to enter a trance-like state. A lot of dust was being thrown into the air and I was watching it falling through the sunlight, feeling to all the world like the Buddha in his first moments of meditative bliss, contemplating life as dust, when all of a sudden a song started up in my head: "There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando."
To say I was never a big fan of Abba would be polite understatement. I tried to make them go away, but then their greatest hits were hammering in my skull.
OK, I told myself, no one around to see me, just one song, then back to the kitsch closet you go my little Swedish friends.
So I was wallpaper-stripping to 'Dancing Queen', while, yes, dancing (not stripping).
After it was done I told my psyche that it had had its fun; time to stop. But then the voices: "Stop, in the name of love, before you break my heart."
C'mon, I told myself, this is getting crazy.
"Crazy horses, Eweeeeh, Eweeeeh!"
I stopped wallpaper-stripping and stood back. Little white cowboy-geared Osmonds everywhere, flashing before my eyes! What was this? Karaoke night in my soul? Was I doing requests? Had the previous flat occupant been a gay disco diva and, when I inhaled his dust, had he penetrated my lungs with some kind of glittery amphetamine?
I decided to get some fresh air, but at the door, keys in hand, Gloria was upon me: "I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key."
The harder I struggled, the tighter Ms Gaynor held me to her buxom bosom. "Go on now, go! Walk out the door!"
I was finally out the door, wondering how the hell I could get the songs to stop. If my mind was a disco, then there had to be a power switch somewhere. Putting fingers in my ears only made it worse. A change of locale maybe? I was fearful of even taking a step in case the Bee Gees started up: "Well you can tell by the way I use my walk…"
The solution, I discovered, was the car and the stereo – other music tracks and constant movement. When out of the car, an iPod kept the disco divas at bay.
I am scared, though. It's been days now and I'm worried that if I have a moment's rest the Gibb brothers will rise up again. Even as I write this I am struggling to hear my own thoughts over 'Xanadu' by Olivia Newton John.
If 'Wired For Sound' comes on, I am going to have to seek professional help. But this problem really is too embarrassing to take to a shrink.
