In which I have a dream about the Oscars...

I had my first Oscar dream in 1992. In it, Basic Instinct was nominated for several Academy Awards including Best Picture. That was pretty much all there was to the dream, but it's stuck with me since. It didn't come true, by the way, for those who aren't up on Oscar history. Just two nominations for Film Editing and Original Score.

Last night I had another one. I may have had some between 1992 and now but I can't remember them. However, I'll remember this one for quite some time.

It was 5pm and I was sitting down to watch the live telecast of the Oscars. This is unusual because, being in Australia, it would mean that the Oscars were delayed several hours. I didn't think anything of it when I settled in to watch the TV. I was just happy to watch the Oscars live again. In Australia, live Oscar telecasts are a very new thing. 2009 was the first time we got to do it down here which meant that I no longer had to endure a media blackout so as not to find out the winners. It was wonderful.

Strange thing is, not only was I watching it on TV but I was also at the ceremony, a ceremony which seemed to have the atmosphere of a corporate party than the Oscars. Everyone was standing around engaging in smalltalk, drinking and being merry.

The first category of the evening was Best Actor. I think Meryl Streep presented, but I can't remember who the nominees were. The winner was Jamie Foxx. I don't know which film he won for. I really should research these things.

Jamie didn't get to go up on stage right away. For thirty minutes there was... well, I don't know what it was. Meryl started gushing, saying how wonderful it was that he won. Then I noticed that Helen Mirren was standing next to me, so I walked over for a chat.

"Jamie Foxx now has more Oscars than Al Pacino," I said.

"Pardon?"

It wasn't that loud, so I'm not sure why she had trouble hearing me.

"I said, Jamie Foxx now has more Oscars than Al Pacino."

She frowned.

"One more time."

I repeated myself again and she looked at me with realisation on her face. "Oh, yes!" she said, laughing politely. Then she motioned to the other side of the room.

"Who's that man over there?"

I followed her hand and looked at the gent she was asking about.

"Him? He's a friggin' hack," I snarled.

"Really? Who is he?"

"That's Peter Travers from Rolling Stone."

And then I woke up.