Pant-less at the podium

Most of us have recurring nightmares, don't we?

Love Chunks has one where he's on the toilet, pants around his ankles, busy daydreaming as he waits to drop a couple of Andrew Bolts off at a the pool.

Then, he looks up and notices that he's in the middle of a street. Adelaide's Rundle Mall, to be precise. Right by the silver balls. Shoppers are walking past; fully clothed, and he's there with the sides of his arse on display.

Sapphire has one where she's floating peacefully down a river, until it eventually becomes less peaceful and out of control. She normally then wakes up and throws up - it's her 'Yep, you're sick; you're really sick' nightmare.

Mum has one too. She's on a bushwalk with Dad, and steps off the national park path to pull down the knickers and have a quick splash on the stones.

Lo and behold, a bus load of Japanese tourists come trooping around the bend on the lower path, getting a white mooned greeting from a seventy year old. When she woke up ---- hang on, that actually happened to her, it wasn't a dream, true story.

As for me, there are two that crop up time and time again and have been doing so since my early twenties. The first is based on a real life event - being late for an exam.

Exam stress is a common dream to have and is quite literally every student's nightmare. They usually concern sleeping in and missing the exam, not being early for the exam but unable to get to the final destination due to being stuck in traffic.

In 1987, Adelaide still had the Grand Prix. The very first one in 1985 was held on my birthday and as I heard the whining sounds of fast cars being televised in the pool room at the other end of the house, I sat in my bedroom studying for my matriculation English exam the following day.

For the next few years, I realised that having a birthday in early November invariably meant being locked in my room, re-reading illegible lecture notes and goofing off by painting my toe nails.

Back to November 1987. I was in second year uni and Dad was driving me from Murray Bridge to Adelaide Uni for my 'Pre-Scientific World View of History' exam. Yeah, second year Arts was not exactly focussing on career-specific topics, but in terms of reading, research and essay writing, knowing the details of Paracelsus, the four humours of the body and lingering beliefs in witchcraft was all my brain was filled with at that point.

Until we hit Pulteney Street. "Grand Prix traffic, I reckon," Dad said, peering over the steering wheel at the long, l-o-n-g line of cars going nowhere.

Fifteen minutes of no moving, my left leg began to jiggle. "It's OK, kiddo, we'll get there," Dad said, looking straight into the 'If you see this, then I've lost the bloody caravan' bumper sticker of the car in front of him. Also not moving.

Half an hour later, I tapped at my watch. "Dad, they'll open the doors in fifteen minutes time and I don't think----"

"It'll move, Cackles.* It has to."

Forty minutes later and I had my first, grown up experience of cold sweat pooling in my arm pits.

"Calm yourself, Kath. Take a few deep breaths, you'll get there on time."

A further five minutes had me squirming on the seat. "Dad, I know you mean well, but I have to run for it. Now."

"But Pulteney Street's about two kilometres long - do you want to arrive all puffed out, stressed and sweaty?

"I already am, Dad."

He nodded, in what we all know is the universal sign for Fair Enough. I pushed open the passenger door, grabbed my back pack and legged it, blonde spiral perm flowing like windblown pot noodles behind me.

My dunlop volleys started to eat at my ankles. They were made for lounging in; being crossed under desks, not running wildly. I kept on.

My jeans rubbed around my middle and the crotch got hotter and damper. I kept on.

My backpack kept wheeling from shoulder to shoulder, banging the lower part of my bag and causing my t-shirt to ride up like a crop top. I kept on.

The hallowed spire of Bonython Hall was finally in sight. Yesssss! Daggy old Flentje theatre was in nuffy old Napier next door. I clattered precariously down the steps, trying hard not to think of the consequences of slipping and smashing my face, hooned like a nervous dog on floor tiles to the right and flung the doors open with a mighty CLANG as they bashed against the wall and back again, almost pushing me over.

Sweat was running into my ear cavities as I wheezed for air and tried to stop a bunch of weird little white spots obscuring my vision.

Seventy students, all seated and all reading the exam questions, turned in their seats to stare at me.

"Hough hough, the traffic ------  Hough hough Grand Prix ------ Hough hough left my dad ------  Hough hough ran like hell------" a drop of sweat flew off my hand towards the exam moderator who was, mercifully, also my tutor. I bent double to try and regain my breath, wet hair now slicked to my face.

Seats creaked in unison as the students went back to their papers.

"Sit down over here," she whispered kindly. "I can give you ten minutes extra if you like."

I thanked her and sat down, ignoring the wet-pants feeling of my bum on the vinyl chair. My Darth Vader Hough hough  puffs eventually subsided. The white spots faded to nothing and there was still a dry spot on the top of my legs to wipe my palms down before picking up the pencil.

"Time," the examiner called. I had finished with the others after all.

Dad was waiting for me outside, looking very concerned. "How did you go?"

I hobbled over towards his outstretched arms; blisters now evident, body all BO-ey and generally exhausted.  "Pretty well I think, Dad. At least I lived this one instead of dreamt about it."

This real life event still does replay in my dreams, but only occasionally.  My more common recurring nightmare is not about the almost-missed exam; it's about getting up to make a speech in front of a large, expectant audience. The spotlight is in my eyes and, as I clear my throat and lean forward into the microphone to start, I feel a coolish breeze.

Yep, I'm naked from the waist down.

* Cackles, thought of by Dad because I laughed a lot as a teenager. "Still, it's better than being called plain old 'Cack'," he pointed out.