It could have been the late-night snack food binge or the up-all-hours gab fest in a swanky downtown Toronto hotel room, but the result was a very interesting dream.

Of course, it would be way too easy for my subconscious to reward all of my happy news of late with a very rewarding happily ever after kind of dream that could end up in an Ellora's Cave novel. So instead, I get this:

I'm part of the incredible David Beckham machine. It's a whirling assembly of photographers, handlers, security and assistants who ensure that everything is happening at the right place, the right time and that the entire Beckham clan looks blooming beautiful thoughout it all. Le sigh.

For this dream I am cast in the role of the lowly assistant's assistant, tasked with holding open a door here and there, shutting a curtain and placing empty water bottles into recycling bins. (I sneak the one that David was using into my purse, which earns me a nasty look from one of the beefy security guards).

I was in the same room with Mr. Beckham (and Posh and the kids) for about 45 seconds, give or take, due to their flight to Toronto arriving late and someone screwing up the chauffeur arrangements. Still, I felt pleased to have done my part without squealing out loud.

The few of us who remained in the room all sank into the plush leather sofas and chairs in the hotel suite and nibbled on the remaining fruit kebabs and pita wedges. When my cell beeped, signalling an incoming text message, I assumed it was from the overall Beckham brigade supervisor, responding to the "ALL CLEAR" I had just sent in.

But it wasn't. The message was from the benched footballer himself.

In it, he told me that I was the recipient since I seemed the one who was most responsive to his needs during our short time together. Before I had a chance to swoon I noticed that what followed was a laundry list of things that he insisted had been done incorrectly and needed to be fixed/apologized for/rearranged immediately or else he'd never come back to Canada again.

Then the light on my phone's display kept on going out, so I was having trouble making out what these horrible mistakes were. They, and I'm paraphrasing here, went along the lines of:

1. Water wrong temperature. Blah blah blah. Limes needed. Blah blah blah. Blue caps only.

2. Photographs taken without blah blah blah. Until further notice, blah blah blah on white backgrounds only.

3. No melons. Posh blah blah blah allergy to pineapple. Kids prefer blah blah blah and seedless grapes.

I scrolled down, revealing David had personally taken the time to pen at least ten more points, when someone tapped on my shoulder.

It was my friend Laura; she had woken me up before I could find out what else my team and I had done to upset David Beckham.

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