I was watching members of the IRA roll a giant snow ball, perfectly round and about half the size of a bus, into a school playground in Belfast. They'd started off early in the morning with a small one and had arrived at the school with this enormous one after rolling it through all of the streets in the city all day.
Notes for Freudian Interpretation
Oh look, a heavy-handed metaphor.
On the day I had the dream, the IRA announced that it was giving up its armed campaign and would pursue its aims without blowing people to bits. I thought that the news was significant, but I'm not sure how meaningful it is. It was obviously thought extremely noteworthy by the angry old man with the determined face who I saw sitting in a traffic jam in the Canongate, blasting Irish republican songs out of his car at the crowds of toadying royalist lickspittles* leaving the Queen's garden party at the palace of Holyrood.
I watched the Newsnight report on the IRA's announcement, despairing at the host of unpleasant men honking on about their community and how awful the other unpleasant men are. There were a lot of pictures of Belfast in the report, obviously, but none of it in winter. I can't explain why any snow should have been in the dream apart from the fact that, after having had pretty hot weather for weeks, I remarked yesterday that it was like autumn or winter all of a sudden.
*By that phrase, I am merely conveying what I assume his perception of the car-loads of people in funny hats might have been and am not expressing my personal opinion. If you want to eat a sandwich in a tent with the Queen, that's entirely your choice.