Evelyn 10

Almost always, my dreams are gray, dark, vague, without much detail, not memorable. Only occasionally will I get a full color, detailed dream. When I do so, it stands out, I take notice.
The very Tuesday evening, after the Col departs, I find myself (in dream) at Beacon Hill Park.
My location there is absolutely unmistakable, the furthest west duck pond, near to Douglas Street.
However, in this dream, I'm not myself. I'm a guard, supervising a dozen prisoners in orange coveralls. They pretend to pick up litter, but there isn't much, as people mostly respect the park.
Surreptiously, I check, discover I don't even own a sidearm. My momentary panic gives way as I realize these are minimum security prisoners, out on a plum job; hence unlikely to misbehave.
Eventually the men give up, as there simply is no more litter. They congregate together, sit or lie on the grass near the pond and start to chat.
It's talk of sex, doings of other criminals, drugs, booze, gambling, bottle picking, working in northern bush camps.
Slowly I realize, I'm not being left out, excluded. No one is rude to me or ignoring me. It's just, well, their talk is so far away from my own experience, that to me it's like they're speaking Swahili.