Stolen / Mistaken Identity Dream 31-1-23.

This dream was in part hyper-realistic and took place between 4:40 and 7:20 AM this morning.

The dream starts with me trying to pay for something in a shop. I open my wallet and look through my cards there. I have my carte vitale, carte de séjour and French driver’s licence. There are no bank or credit cards. There are a few business cards and an old one for Blockbuster video. I am very surprised by this. I look in a different part of my wallet and find a bank card. The salesperson tries it in the machine and it is refused. I realise that it is an out of date card and that all my others have somehow gone missing. Someone has stolen them along with my identity. I must find a branch of HSBC so as to put a block on the cards.

I exit the shop and find myself on the South bank of the Thames near Waterloo station and the Festival Hall. I do not understand why I am there in crowded London.  I bump into C and explain to her what has happened. We must figure out who has stolen my cards and therefore my identity. In a maternal fashion she kisses me on the forehead and we go off into an arcade to search for a branch of HSBC.  We stop in a small shop and she buys me a small, sealed carafe of white wine which she says I will need for later. We go into a café which is serving wholefood and drinks. Waiting table is DMcG. I haven’t seen her in ages and she is looking young and stress free. Her ginger hair is long as it was forty years ago. She is no longer wearing a business suit and is in hippie attire with a flowing skirt. She is braless under her shirt and very hippie, patchouli of smell. On seeing me she comes over and gives me a great big hug. She is very pleased to see me and we chat briefly about what has happened. She says that she now works at this shop five days a week on the lunchtime service and that she would be very glad to see me again.

There is no HSBC bank to be found. C checks if I have my mobile ‘phone. I do. I explain that there is no danger of anyone having cloned my banking app. because I do not use one. She checks that I have her new number in the ‘phone. I do. She thinks that it is very likely that whoever stole my cards and identity has mixed me up with someone else. Because why would someone behave as if they were me and copy my history? It is not all that interesting especially now. She says that she has a meeting and will meet me back at #111 later. She rushes off before I have the chance to explain I no longer live there. She thinks that it was while I was at #111 that someone stole my identity and reminds me of the two/three burglaries in the flats below.

I now find myself in Battersea. It is a very rough part and there are quasi-derelict houses and people hanging out in doorways. I know that they are selling drugs and that this is a dangerous place. I make my way through the wasteland and onto a high street. I am still looking for an HSBC. I know that with my identity card, carte de séjour, I stand a better chance face to face in fixing the problem. Otherwise, I need good internet access and my pass-codes. I think I remember them but would like to check them with the numbers I have written on a piece of paper in the top right hand drawer of my desk.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that three men are now following me. One is in charge with a Panama hat and the other two are his goons, lackeys. They are younger, Hispanic and are wearing leather jackets. I decide to see if they are following me so I duck down an alleyway and into an arcade. Sure enough they follow me. I walk into a clothing store and out the back door into an alley that leads to a canal. They follow me and sensing that I am trying to evade them they give chase. One of them tries to grab my wrist and I perform an Aikido move, kote-gaesh, which sends him flying. I run along the canal. There is a canal boat approaching a tunnel. I jump from the bank onto the canal boat and just mange to hold on. My feet drop into the water. I pull myself up onto the boat and it disappears into a tunnel. I can see my pursuers are very frustrated.

The boat leaves the tunnel and I get off on to the bank. I exit the canal tow track and know that I am in South London a little bit West of Clapham. I know that if I walk South and then head East. I will reach Clapham and then Brixton. I will be able to go to #111 and see if I can find my old passcodes which are in the drawer of my desk.

I arrive at an estate management office, which manages all the now rental property in my old street. There is a tall young man with light ginger hair sat behind a desk. I enter the office and explain my predicament to him. He asks who I am, what is my name. I tell him. He says that he has had three South American men recently asking about me. He says that they were asking for Alan from “Rezilia” {Brasília?} in Brazil. He thinks that they thought that I was this man. I explain that I have never been to Brazil and that it must be a case of mistaken identity.

I explain that there is an outside chance that my passcodes are still in the drawer of my desk and would it be possible for me to have a look. He says that he will have to ask the tenants.

It becomes clear in the dream that someone has assumed aspects of my behaviour and cloned parts of my personality way back when I used to live at #111 {around 2003-2006}. They have copied me as I was then. Someone has been pretending to be me for quite a while.

The young man takes me to look at #111. Someone has done a truly excellent refurbishment job and it has an ornate wooden façade with moving giant carvings. He says that we cannot go in until the tenants return.

We go back to his office and he suggests that we use the good internet access there to log onto HSBC in order to block the cards. I say that they will need a pin to use them. He says that there are some places that still use the old fashioned method. I get out my modern tablet and ask him as a “youth” to start to log on. First, he checks my contacts list which is intact and holds C’s number for later. He runs his eyes down the list and there are none with a Brazil dialling code.

I ask him again about the people who came asking after me. The description fits those who were chasing me. I know that some kind of partial identity theft happened whilst I was at #111 and that someone has copied me, “stolen” a part of my life even.

The alarm goes off and the dream ends.

#111 is the number and the name by which I refer to my old flat in Upper Tulse Hill, Brixton.

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