Tunnel 228

So, you start a blog to record your dreams and then you go through almost a month in which you are unable to remember any. But then you manage, by a fluke of circumstance and charity, to get into an afternoon performance of Tunnel 228, the Punchdrunk/Old Vic/Young Vic theatre show/art installation underneath Waterloo Station that was booked solid within six hours of tickets becoming available and you realise that they’ve been doing your dreaming for you. There’s the underwater lovers in the watertight box, the Hitchcock lookalike and leggy brunette in the peephole closet-brothel, the dozens of tiny stuffed birds sprouting from the spotlit splintered coffin, the jackdaw-mannequin dinner date with melting plates and spoons, the black-clad balaclava-wearing performers standing silently in dark alcoves and empty rooms. When you come out blinking into the daylight, everything around you is a prop, every passerby a performer. Apparently they’re hoping to bring it back in the autumn. I hope so, too.

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