Odette Laurent

Dream journal tip nobody told me for years: write the last scene first, then work backwards. Pulling the thread from the end unspools the whole thing.

Someone hums in the proofing room

I bake from 10pm to 6am. Henri trained me fourteen years ago, when I could barely shape a baguette. He hummed while he worked, always the same tune, some old chanson he never told me the name of. Flat on the high notes. He'd tap each loaf twice before it went in the oven, like knocking on a door. He died in August. I took over his shift because nobody else wanted it. Three weeks ago, around 3:40, I was alone in the back. Mixer off, ovens heating, that deep quiet you only get at that hour. And from the proofing room I heard humming. His tune. Flat on the high notes. I'm a seeker, not a believer in much yet. I checked the radio (unplugged). I checked the alley door (locked). I checked my own mouth, honestly, because I've caught myself humming it before. Not me. I stood in the doorway and said, 'Bonsoir, Henri.' The humming stopped. The rack of loaves in there had risen perfectly, better than any batch I've managed since he left. I tapped each one twice before it went in the oven. I've done it every night since. Whatever that was, I'm choosing to take it as a thank-you for keeping the ovens warm.

Henri and the butter

Lucid again last night, which for me means about 11am. Night-shift baker problems. The trigger was the clock in the bakery. It's a big ugly Hobart clock over the proofing cabinets, and in the dream it had no hands, just a smooth white face. I've done reality checks for so many years that my body knew before I did: no hands, no time, you're dreaming. Everything went sharp at the edges, the way it does. And Henri was there at the bench. He died in August, and I've dreamed of him a few times since, but never like this, never with the light this clear. Sleeves rolled the way he always wore them, one higher than the other. He was laminating croissant dough. I didn't ask him anything big. I'd planned to, I keep a list for exactly this, but when it came to it I just stood beside him and watched his hands. He tapped the dough and said, in that flat Lyonnais way, 'You're rushing the butter. Cold butter, warm heart, not the other way round.' Then he laughed at his own joke, which he also always did. I woke up with the smell of flour in the room, which I know is probably just my hair. I made the croissants slower tonight. Waited an extra ten minutes between folds. Best batch I've turned out in months. Take that however you like. It's going in the journal as a visit.

At 3am the bakery is the quietest place in the city. Just the mixer, the radio turned low, and me with my hands in sixty pounds of dough. A few months ago I started doing something I haven't mentioned to my boss. When I score the tops of the country loaves, I add a tiny spiral at one end and think one wish into each. Rest, for whoever buys this one. Courage. A good phone call. Someone to share it with. I never know who'll get which. I like to think that somewhere in the city at 8am, a stranger is buttering a small blessing and has no idea.

Reality checks for the very new

A few of you have messaged asking how to start lucid dreaming, so here's what actually worked for me, minus the mystical packaging: 1. Pick one check and do it twenty times a day. Mine is pressing a finger into my palm. Awake, it stops. Dreaming, it sometimes goes through. 2. Read something, look away, read it again. Dream text rarely holds still. 3. Ask 'am I dreaming?' and actually mean it. Doing it on autopilot doesn't carry over. It took me about six weeks the first time. Be patient and be kind to your sleep. If it's making you anxious or wrecking your rest, stop. The dreams aren't going anywhere.

Wind-down tea for a day sleeper

Working nights means my "bedtime" is 10am, with the sun blazing and the neighbour's leaf blower going. So I've built a little wind-down potion for sleeping by day. One teaspoon of chamomile, a scant pinch of lavender (any more and it tastes like soap, trust me), a few leaves of lemon balm from the window box and a drip of honey. Before I drink it I hold the mug close and say one question into the steam, the thing I'd like to dream about. Then I write that question at the top of a fresh page in my journal. I don't know if the dreams answer. I do know I've kept that journal since I was nine, and the questions alone tell a pretty good life story.