A couple of weeks ago, I dreamt I bought a Mooncup. I was sitting on a bus seat – oddly the one outside my high school in Sydney – with a close current London-based friend of mine. I was waxing lyrical to her about my latest purchase. Twenty pound, I was saying. A bit of an outlay at first, but given the cost of tampons, twenty pound over a life time of menstrual cycles demonstrated pretty damn good value for money, I thought. I held the silicon diaphragm-like device in my hand and implored her to touch it. I haven’t used it yet, I reassured. As we discussed its virtues, the Mooncup began to gradually take on the appearance of a crusty piece of bread. We continued chatting and then began to absent-mindedly pick at the bread and eat it. Suddenly, we stopped, realised what we were doing and looked down at the bread/Mooncup, its edges all torn off. Oh bugger, I said. That cost me twenty quid. Do you think it will grow back or will I have to buy a new one?
I’ve absolutely no idea what the significance of that dream was nor what the symbolism was supposed to infer. The concept of the Mooncup had been introduced to me days earlier by another friend, so clearly, it was on my mind. But why eat it? And why did I think it would have autotomic qualities?
The answers to this unconscious conundrum will remain elusive no doubt. Perhaps it was in fact some sort of subliminal marketing ploy on part of Mooncup, for now my curiosity is piqued and I intend to purchase one.
Those clever Mooncup folk…