The first time I dreamed you were wearing a beautiful blue tailored trench coat, the style was a very elegant Lloyd’s of London.
You were hugging me from behind, although I was walking away from you.
You clenched onto me for dear life, then you slid into a booth in front of me, and began saying: “Do you have any idea who this is?
Do you?” as you physically morphed from a lovely brunette female into a blonde Gordon Ramsey.
It was so strange.
The second time I dreamt of you was a week before Christmas, you were standing next to me, but had the hair style of another B level rock star we both know vaguely.
You grabbed my hand, turned to hug me by wrapping your hands around my waist and were completely naked under your coat.
Then a week after the holidays a picture of you floated across the internet of you on Christmas Eve, wearing the same coat I dreamed of you in.
I think you miss me, and although I adore your great sense of humor, style and witty ways, players are really not my cup of tea.