Last night, I went to see Peter Jackson’s The Lovely Bones. I’ve never in my life had a film-induced nightmare, but any normal fourteen-year-old girl should probably have her dreams haunted by Mr. Harvey in his bespectacled, mustached horror. So naturally, I was a little nervous as I went to bed afterwards.
I didn’t need to worry. I can’t remember my muddled dreams very well, but they definitely featured post-it notes and chickens. Serial child rapists/murderers didn’t even make an appearance.
I’m rather impressed with the innate ability of my subconscious to remain unaffected by books and films, no matter how disturbing the content.