I don’t like to bang on about my dreams these days. It’s far too self-indulgent. Often, the part that made one’s own dream fascinating at the time was its attached emotions. Even the most intense and meaningful nocturnal experiences – those thunderous, world-changing revelations that made perfect sense to one’s slumbering mind – are impossible to convey when awake without provoking bafflement, concern or stifled yawns from anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot. It’s the same for all of us.

The digestive processes of our minds can produce seemingly profound narratives and characters. Yet in the bright, often disappointing light of day, these are revealed as nothing but regurgitated waking memories and mashed chunks of half-chewed Jungian symbolism. The inside of my head – and yours – is no more interesting than anyone else’s.

Bear with me then, while I indulge myself and describe part of a dream I had this morning. It was about a statue – or rather, a painting in three dimensions.  There were other details, of course. I won’t bore you with them. There was a garden, a computer screen, and the chaste little frisson as I (in long, black gloves) touched the bare hand of a voluptuous woman in a shining white dress. That’s all you need to know. My dreams have all the symbolic subtlety of a slap to the face.

Anyway, at the centre of the dream was a statue. Viewed from the front, it was Leonardo da Vinci’s “Virgin of the Rocks”. Like a picture in a pop-up book, it stood out from its page. As I moved, the Madonna began to change. Unlike the flattened, angular youth she had previously appeared to be, her three-dimensional self was curvaceous, the shape of a mother, and anything but virginal. Her cheeks were rosy and succulent and her mouth was pursed into a knowing smile. The image was powerfully erotic.

When I woke (a little flustered) it occurred to me that, as a young woman at a religious school, I wasn’t given much to aspire to. The biologically-impossible role model who the church taught us to emulate was a mother who had never had sex. No matter how hard a girl tries to be this mythical creature, she will inevitably grow up to feel she has failed. In a week where the Catholic Church has put the equal rights of women on a par with kiddy fiddling, the virgin mother is a particularly poignant symbol to dream about.

If Mary truly existed as a historical figure, she would almost certainly be different to the flat, dour-faced prude we’re told to follow the example of. After all, we met her as an unwed woman carrying an illegitimate child, who then became a political fugitive and raised a revolutionary son. As the living, breathing, three-dimensional mortal in my dream, she seems far more realistic to me. That’s somthing to aspire to.

Read about the Virgin of the Rocks on Wikipedia here.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not exactly religious about fashion (or, it seems, about religion) but this year’s trends have interested me. Clothes seem awfully subby at the moment. It could be that the need for aesthetic conformity has always had a touch of slavery about it and I’ve only just noticed, yet it does seem especially obvious right now. Men and women alike are donning chains, straps and shackles in the name of fashion. It’s achingly beautiful to look at.

So, for anyone who likes to see feet in bondage, this summer is all about the caged shoe. I’ve seen plenty walking around. They look a little like elegant gladiator sandals – but captive gladiators, rather than the voluntary sort. See a selection, as well as female celebrities wearing them, at DrJays.com.

Here’s part of a very funny article by Callum Hornigold on his encounter with female pro-wrestler Pippa Lvinn.

“…In a run down car park I must admit I’m nervous as I watch Pippa pull up outside her gym. I’m greeted by a woman who is much shorter than I imagine but this still does not put me at ease – I hear the relatively small pit-bull has the biggest bite. We embrace a firm handshake and she begins to lead me up some long winding steel steps till we come to a large cast-iron door. As she heaves the door open I half expect a chamber of drab concrete walls and instruments of torture but what I’m greeted with is something completely different.

The lights switch on and there before me is a warm gym full of colourful wrestling memorabilia and bright flags lavishly sprawled across the walls. I see photos of smiling female wrestlers in an array of extravagant costumes. In such an inviting atmosphere it’d be easy to be fooled into a false sense of security, but what goes on in here is brutal. Blood may be spilt. Bones may be broken. Faces may be mauled. I’m beckoned to the ropes and welcomed into the ring by Pippa’s wicked grin. It is time.

She smashes her back to floor showing me how to land on the canvas without snapping my neck. It’s called bumping. The lesson is short as I’m suddenly slammed to the deck. This is no bump. I expect something half way between an Ikea mattress and a trampoline but what I get feels like a bed of granite. The impact rips the wind out of my chest and I begin gasping for air, flapping around like a desperate fish. A new found fear and respect for wrestlers emerges in an instant. This to them, is the easy shit, the day to day stuff. I’m on the floor in pieces wailing like a complete pussy…”

Full article here.