Terrorist Accusation and Wounding

Was living near the top of an enormous, silver block of flats - not shabby, but not particularly special, either. There were a hundred stories in the building, so the lift displayed percentages as you travelled in it.

I met a middle-aged Muslim lady, who insisted, grimly, on telling me that an Asian guy of my acquaintance was actually a terrorist plotting a terrible crime. I shouted at her and covered my ears, knowing that as soon as I knew even unsubstantiated accusations about any individual I would be breaking the law by not informing the authorities. To no avail... she succeeded in communicating her concerns and I knew I was already irretrievably embroiled in the matter.

This involvement seemed to have borne fruit before too long, since I soon found myself with various injuries. I kept smearing blood on door handles and cash machines as I went about my daily business - increasingly concerned that I should find medical attention, but finding this very difficult. Particularly disturbing was a length of thin metal rod protruding from a bloody wound on my left arm, which caused great pain when I caught it on things.

The Langham Code

I was reading an article in the 'Guardian' concerning the sad case of the comedy actor Chris Langham, who is facing charges of indecent assault. I got the impression that the writer of the piece knew more than he felt secure about putting into print, and this suspicion was confirmed by a note at the foot of the article explaining: 'If you wish to know more about a possible motive, fold along the dotted lines'. It was only when thus prompted that I noticed some faint dotted lines running horizontally through the typesetting. Naturally, I folded the paper as suggested to find that certain lines of type joined crudely up to form the phrase 'self-financed film project'.

I marvelled at this new journalistic technique, which presumably avoided legal difficulties, as well as explaining the appearance of certain apparently awkward or inappropriate words in the prose.

I did actually glance at an article in the Guardian on this topic while eating a sandwich in my car yesterday; it was days old and I had already read it.

The Rake

I became aware of a secret government conspiracy known as 'The Rake'. I was shown, as part of a trail of evidence, a poor colour-photocopy of a complex hotel invoice. It incorporated scribbles and marginalia, many quite chatty, but all full of impenetrable terms and code-words. Some mentioned parties and the word 'charlie'... I was slightly shocked - but these young, high-flying secret agents probably felt they needed to let off steam whilst deep in their covert assignments.

Y's After the Event

A campaign has been launched, based on supposed evidence that if men wear more brightly coloured underpants, it will help prevent accidents.

At one point I find myself somewhere somewhere Newcastle. I am looking out over a low-lying and marshy river estuary; I can see several large, rusting mechanical pylons. I realise that they are remnants of the ones which feature in the brutal denoument of 'Get Carter'.

An elderly Geordie local explains to me that his father used to tell him that the pylons were once painted a vivid red, and that this ensured there were less of a danger to shipping and air traffic.

Later, I discover that the bright-coloured-underpants campaign appears to have been largely created by Marks and Spencer - their stores are full of promotional graphics urging customers to follow this offical advice (like eating five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables per day), and I surmise that the whole campaign is nothing more than a cynical plot to sell more men's garments.

Thinking about it now, the pylon-vista was very reminiscent of Kincardine Bridge (on the River Forth).

Breakfast with Hunter

I visit the home of Hunter S Thompson (the outlaw journalist), about whom I have been obsessing a good deal recently. He is still alive, naturally. Rather than his famous Owl Farm compound, I find he is living in an architecturally unique structure in a desert. It's a very organic-looking building, mainly composed of curved sheets of yellow sandstone with stout, dull steel pillars. It has hot tubs and bedrooms and enclosed areas hung with white sheets, all overlain slightly with wind-blown dust.

The great man seems tolerant of my company, although not overjoyed. I leave him fiddling around with some handguns and climb stairs to a high, amoebic tower (with flagpole) to survey the arid wastes around. It's very hot; I am wearing my old, distressed black jesus sandals. Later, in what seems like the dining area of the house, I reflect that I never checked if a flag was flying - and if one was, would it carry his famous double-thumbed Gonzo fist emblem?

Ominous Bee

All I remember is the point at which matters became really desperate... we were all exhausted, some injured, when the soldier said: "I hear the sound of that bee. Please God don't let it turn into the sound of a swarm"

Political Adventures in Glasgow

Some sort of anti-war protest is scheduled to happen. It's marching from somewhere North-East of Glasgow city centre towards Glasgow Green. Interested in taking part in a non-committal sort of way, I begin to make my way up through increasingly fragmented and run-down cityscape. It becomes less pleasant as the incidence of broken glass increases - I am barefoot.

Eventually I bump into my mother; she is on her way up to the march. I change my mind when she explains that it seems to be entirely a vehicle for George Galloway, and I worry that she is being recruited into something that looks like having a Galloway ego-trip as its main purpose. Eventually (now travelling by bike, having had one helpfully rolled out to me by an unseen assistant) I encounter the procession - it's much smaller than I'd expected, a straggling band with Galloway at its head.

I am invited to a formal lunch, and decide this would be a better option. It seems to be hosted by Strathclyde University (most of this dream takes place in the rough geographical area occupied by their campus in real life), and to demonstrate some scientific point the food has all been dyed - one colour per plate. The dishes (new potatoes, and some tuna steak or white fish) at my end of the table are blue - further down the table, green, red and yellow. Sitting beside me is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, and I humorously remark to my fellow VIP guest that sitting him at the blue food is something of a political faux-pas on the part of the hosts.

Time Cam

I'm with my cousins K and D - we're in someone's house (I think it might belong to me) and mucking about with a small video camera which I have borrowed. Scanning around the room throught the viewfinder (which only shows a greyscale image, as some cameras do) I notice that people's faces look somehow different. Most objects around the room look the same, though some a little 'fresher' tha they do when I take the camera from my eye. Most strikingly, my mother's cat (who is roaming around the room) appears smaller, shorter-haired and more athletic.

I discuss this with K, who is working in a little plot outside the tenement he lives in (it looks a bit like somewhere in Hyndland, Glasgow). He is brandishing a small gardening fork, and explains to me how he has deduced that the camera shows the past! He reckons, from the cat's appearance, that it shows objects and people to be about ten years before the present. At this point his sister F comes along, and we explain this remarkable news to her. She is very excited and jokes about how 'any woman would be glad of a camera like that'. I feel the need to clarify that - without some clever arrnagement of mirrors and lenses - it would be impossible for her to actually see herself through the viewfinder.

Later, I am walking along a street in Glasgow when a man's dog begins to harass me. I am immediately both angry and frightened, especially so since the dog's owner seems to be encouraging the beast's behaviour. "Look: fuck off with your dog" I cry. The man merely speaks to his dog: "That's it, boy - he's on my patch". "This is a public place!" I respond, "it's not 'your patch'".

The greyscale viewfinder detail certainly derives from experience of a digital film camera I was using a while ago. I've always been wary of dogs I don't know, and some of their owners, but doubt I would be quite so forthcoming so quickly in this situation...

Dreadful Nuclear Travelogue

A hazily-remembered but terrible and depressing dream... starting in a pseudo-Glasgow - the country was on the brink of nuclear conflict. Urban scenarios in Victorian official buildings; eventually I became aware that an atmosphere of resigned, grotesque, crazy fatalism had taken over, reminiscent of the film 'Downfall'.

Next, my wife J and I were abandoning the city at my insistence and heading (sometimes by car, sometimes by foot) towards Loch Lomond. Although there were no scenes of mass exodus - we seemed to be the only people heading for the countryside - we travelled through an increasingly lawless and chaotic Scotland. By the time we reached a pseudo-Helensburgh, the townspeople were flooding out of the town buildings with the news that missiles had been launched and were on their way.

Looking down the River Clyde towards Glasgow (things seeming to have become geographically reversed) I could see, against a clear afternoon sky, the missile glimmering... red metallic paint. And then, a mushroom cloud, smaller and more fiery than I expected. I watched it for a while, a column of flames shooting upwards from a small area of ground before realising that our journey should continue as soon as possible.

Therafter, an increasingly despairing trek further into the wilderness; a feeling of being aware that I was deliberately shutting off concerns about food and shelter, and our future in general.

Costume weekend

A really enjoyable dream. We go off to a weekend party somewhat resembling one of those murder-mystery things - however, though this one features structured events nothing seems to really reach a conclusion. The theme is sort-of-eighteenth century, so everyone is wearing frock-coats, wigs and huge taffetta dresses.

I'm having a great time - all the participants do very well speaking in the appropriate language of the era. I particularly enjoy using the word 'sir' at the end of each sentence when speaking to a male partygoer. At one point I thought of going to our room to fetch my camera and take a snap of proceedings - it occurred to me that the apperance of this 21st century gadget would spoil the fun a bit, so changed my mind.

One of the rooms within the substantial period villa housing the event contains a model of the villa and its surrounding buildings. They appear to be set in estate parkland and each can be lifted up to reveal a tiny, scale interior showing the events taking place so that one might get a good overview of how the 'plot' of the weekend will develop. I quite fancied going to look at a stable block nearby, but discovered on leaving the french windows at the back of the house that I was had in fact been in my mother's house and was now standing in her back garden on a frosty morning. I could hear voices speaking in the correct manner from the next street along and realised that the organisers had in fact spread the various buildings around these suburban streets.

I walked back inside and poured myself a drink from a decanter, wondering how the locals reacted to these playacting people in fancy dress making their way between the buildings.

I had arrived at the party in a sky-blue Morris Minor which I owned. Looking at it later, I noticed I'd parked it inside on the parquet flooring, and it had been altered into a 'stretch' version by chopping in half and using enormous girders to join the two halfs.

Driving cars indoors and the attendant difficulties is becoming a recurrent theme here.

Particle Accelerator

(transcribed from notes made immediately upon awakening)

Fire reported in Clyde Tunnel... Performance artists... slam door on AH, try to fake photographs.

Filming, waiting for P with fancy sports car. At particle accelerator, drum-like, concrete, exhibition corridors, terrorist risk (London flattened, W. Europe uninhabited), pointed up by hoax ???/bomb incident a couple of years ago. Car park outside. Motorhead week on TV, avant-garde documentaries, watching in hotel (?) bar with relatives and filming colleagues. Christmas guests elsewhere in hotel, well-off family deposits large and robust animatronic Rudolph, it responds to actions...

Early morning on way to filming location. Ice T and Chuck D have become involved and to my irritation want to re-direct it as a hip-hop promo...

...Consider tying H to a school chair for vocal run-through. P doesn't appear on time, then leaves early.

Big Brother

Along with my wife, J, I was a contestant on 'Big Brother'. The series had only just started, so there were a huge number of participants in a large complex of trendy buildings and gardens. I was only just getting to know some of them. I didn't see much of J., strangely enough, but was very excited that the viewers would see what I was doing, albeit in a heavily-edited form.

I got a laugh out of almost everybody I met by going from room to room shouting 'Bored, bored, bored, bored!' in a pastiche of Adrian Edmonson as Vyvian from 'The Young Ones'. I was sure this would make it into the broadcast programme and that I would become hugely popular as a result.

Unusually for 'Big Brother', we were allowed out for the occasional morning or afternoon, so J. and I decided to meet her father and drive him somewhere. I had spent some of the cash which seemed to have accompanied my new-found celebrity on an extremely old (1910s-30s) and small car. It had been reasonably well restored. However, we became lost and my attempts to find a shortcut through a Victorian sandstone building in pleasant suburban gardens failed when we kept encountering stairs. I found I could stick my foot out and lift the vehicle down sets of two or three steps, but longer flights meant we had to give up and find another way round.

Cast off!

Was leaving a Glasgow dock to sail down the Clyde as the captain of a fairly large vessel (it could have been a car ferry or the like). Very excited about this, and pretty confident, even though I hadn't done anything like it before. I gave orders to cast off at bow and stern - I could hear my crew complying, and the ship began to drift out into the river. I realised with slight concern that I hadn't first ordered the engines to be started (surely I was doing this in the wrong order) and did so. To be quite frank, I was only fleetingly bothered by this, and primarily because I didn't want people viewing from the quay to see I didn't know what I was up to. Once we were under way (at 'half forward' I think), I began to concentrate on the river ahead, knowing that I would have to anticipate any change of course long before we reached the point at which it was required.

Bush Visit

Was back at school, or at least in school. Looked like a standard West-of-Scotland secondary school, though not the one which, in reality, I attended.

An exciting day; George W Bush was visiting the school. In person, he appeared slightly broader and shorter than I would have imagined, and was being ushered around by school and security officals.

I engaged him in an ideological debate, which he appeared to be attempting to withdraw from, but still participated in. My argument was pretty strange, and seemed to be based on a hypothetical transaction between a Jewish Berlin shopkeeper who had been publicly accused of short-changing his customer, sometime in the 30s. Public outcry had been whipped up from this incident, which eventually became the seed from which the justification of the Final Solution outrages of WWII had grown.

George Bush retreated from the discussion, and whatever metaphorical point I was trying to make. I was aware of many around me (children and adults) who seemed to be enthusiastic about my attempts to harangue the super-power leader.

Wartime escape

An alarming dream of paranoia and pursuit. A bit of an epic, but I can only really recall fragmentary images of a trek across Scotland avoiding established roads and settlements to evade detection. At one point, I was compelled to use a ferry terminal to make good my route, and was extremely concerned that I might be spotted, or my name used. Like much of the dream, this location seemed to be set in the 1940s or 50s, judging from the interiors as well as the appearance of passers-by and officials.

Success for an Old Mate

Met up with B., an old chum from my days at Cardonald College, Glasgow. He is now running a business printing mouse mats and shirts (formal shirts, not t-shirts). His company is called 'MatPrint'

Flying

A classic flying dream, and very enjoyable. I found myself at a club operating out of a warehouse, overlooking fields but at the edge of a range of steep hills and moorland. At a later point of the dream I drove to a point on the coast beyond these hills.

One of the facilities offered at the club was the use of radio-controlled model helicopters. Once the control of these had been mastered, it was possible to loop a strap of webbing (similar to that used in seat-belts) over the helicopter, and to sit in the sling formed, whilst holding the radio controls. I can clearly remember the thrill of feeling my feet leaving the ground for the first time as I learnt how to balance my weight with the small lifting power of which the helicopter was capable.

Once I had become confident with this, I tried to see how I felt about rising to increasing heights, and found a comfortable maximum. Then I was off... I left the surroundings of the warehouse/hangar and sailed away to attempt to fly right over the range of hills. Clumpy heather and moss lay below, and I felt sure that I could fall from a reasonable height without injury if anything went wrong. Unfortunately, power lines were strung across the crest of the hill, and I was wary of making contact with or becoming tangled up in them, so I diverted my route back down and round the hill, allowing myself to rise once to a tremendous height and enjoying the view, before returning to a safer level.

I landed, with every intention of getting airborne again as soon as possible - I wanted to enjoy as much of this experience as I could. I discussed the equipment briefly with one of the more experienced members; he explained that more powerful twin-rotor (Chinook-like) helicopters were available, and could manage the weight of a man in a wheelchair.

Villain of the Piece

This dream had a baddie, a la Batman and Robin. He wore large, circular glasses and a black-and-white hooped top, and his name was: 'Meridian', symbolised by his outfit.

My first thought on waking up was "why didn't the stripes on Meridian's jersey run from top to bottom, like the meridians of the globe?"... my second thought was "no, they wouldn't actually be circles, then".

Strange Transport

Racing around a lot in this one. Two scenarios survive: Driving around (with a passenger, my friend G. I think) , I find myself suddenly turning into the main entrance of Frasers department store, off Buchanan Street, Glasgow. Panicked to find myself negotiating the gaps between perfume counters, I am relieved to find that the ways is clear through a side entrance onto Argyle Street. Phew! I thought I was sure to get into a lot of trouble. Later, I am riding an extremely small yet very tall bicycle (about the size of a child's bike, but saddle and handlebars are about twenty feet from the ground). This is difficult, especially because I am trying to ride without using my hands; I am eating a bowl of cereal or fruit. I am moving rapidly through the streets of what looks like some continental city. I am increasingly worried as I veer between double-decker buses, I am sitting so high up that I can see their roofs. Eventually I discard my spoon, and then the bowl, since I know it will be impossible to continue without doing so.

Horse Death

In an attic room, illuminated by large Velux window, in the roof of a tall building (four storeys or so). A serious fight is taking place, although I'm not sure what my involvement is in it. One of the opponents (or the main opponent) is mounted on a horse, and the beast stamps and bangs around the enclosed space, wild eyed and unnerved by its confinement. Suddenly the horse and rider are smashed through the window by some action of the conflict, and I am at the window just in time to see the horse scrabbling and terrified as it slides down the roof, its legs - useless in these conditions - thrashing around, dislodging some slates, then it drops out of site beyond the roof's edge. I realise that I can't bear to investigate its broken body at ground level.

Coat meeting

Am wearing my grey felt coat, and notice a man wearing what seems to be an identical coat. He is slightly smaller than me, with very short dark hair, and a goatee. "Excuse me, but where did you get that coat?" he asks. "Marks and Spencer", I reply, not letting on that I have noticed he is sporting the same garment. "Are you ___ ____?" he continues, using my real name, and I confirm that yes, indeed I am. He introduces himself - he's a good friend of my brother-in-law, and the son of one of my wife's clients.

This person does actually exist, though I've never met them. I'll now have to find out if they really match this description.

By the Sea

Swimming off some rocks... rather slippy with lots of moss, big waves and rather scary, but managed to launch myself into the water a few times... it's quite cold.

...wandering around a large building with long, glazed wings - something like a primary school. Each wing has two storeys, but I don't really get the chance to explore upstairs...

Now in Multimedia Format

Inspired by the wonderful work of Jesse Reklaw, K. (frequent star of these narratives) has been in touch with his own rather beautiful visualisation of 'Bob Harding and Pirate Ship' (see below for the original). I think he got my hairline about right, too. Respect is most certainly due, and with a bit of luck the recent dream famine will be coming to an end soon!

Plat, and Fuel Crisis

Am driving (on the stretch of the M8 between Bishopton and Paisley, I think) when - suddenly - petrol becomes unavailable and all vehicles immediately switch to electrical power. Also as part of this transformation, cars (including my own) become smaller and closer to the ground, as well as running on tram/rail lines which are set into the motorway. It's delightful how everyone scoots around Scalectrix-like in silence...

Later, I see the new edition of a glossy news magazine. The leading article is about a woman named 'Plat' who is making the headlines.

Hamilton Suite

Some sort of gathering of musical people in the Hamilton Suite, Greenock. A lot of my company are preparing for a gig at the Dearkin (Dworkin? Deacon?) Festival which is being held in London. A poster for this event shows the venue, which is architecturaly spectacular, looking something like the Lloyds Bank building on its side - the interior is open, so it forms a sort of huge illuminated tunnel - or so it seems from the stylised monochrome treatment on the poster.

At one point I am standing at a urinal, but choose to urinate into a handy polythene bag instead. My friends and I all put on our white trousers before going home.

The Hamilton Suite was sited opposite the Tesco Supermarket on Rue End Street, Greenock and closed sometime in the 1980s

Concrete rendezvous

Meeting in a concrete bunker - St Peter's, Cardross-alike again. I notice a portion of the roof has given way since my last visit there, and discuss with my company the increasingly deteriorated state of this historic building. Rain outside and pools of water on the floor...

Pell-Mell

Was joining my old band for a jam/rehearsal. As often used to be the case, I felt slightly frustrated at difficulties in getting any coherent songs together; the whole thing didn't really work out. Was using my old black Yamaha drum machine.

Later, in an alternative vesrion of Greenock (my home town): with a bunch of people including my cousin K. we end up in an upper storey flat. He has a firework (it seems to be some sort of firework occasion) - just one, a Roman Candle, and lights it. To my mild distress he leaves it, unattended and sparking, resting on a window sill and pointing out of the open window. However, I later find that it has exhausted itself, and the sparks have crystallised somehow. They protrude in a spray from the charred cardboard tube, looking slightly like the fibre-optic lamps popular in the eighties, and flake and crumble upon touching in a similar way to a Chinese 'magic forest' or 'crystal garden'. Later, we go to see a recent innovation: a church which has been converted into an extremely steep indoor ski-slope. Two trough-like runs have been created, each begins at the level of the balcony, and ends up at the front row of pews, leaving the aisle clear for entrance and exit.

We spend some time wandering around this pseudo-Greenock, I am suprised to see bits (especially a small circus of tenement buildings around a private garden) which I don't recognise.

I am later taken to meet a moustachioed bloke who (at first) irritates me with his seemingly contrived eccentricity. He runs a graphic design business (there are colour swatches lying around the floor of his otherwise smarty house), and I rapidly assess that he fancies himself as something of a Vivian Stanshall. We end up discussing Stanshall, and I discover that he claims to have met Stanshall on at least one occasion). I also get the impression that this man shares with Stanshall a tendency to alcoholism. He shows me his piano - I am about to tinker with the keys, when he simultaneously shuts the lid on my hands and begins to play himself, somehow. However, I accompany him on another piano positioned at right angles to this one. My piano is older and a lot of the keys are badly out of tune, which annoys me, but we manage to enjoy a relatively harmonious session of twelve-bar blues. At one point when the music hits difficulties I am delighted to make my wife (J) laugh with the phrase "aaargh, everything's gone pell-mell!"

Later, I'm in a pseudo-Glasgow, trying to get home by bus. As always, I am interested to see parts of the city I don't normally visit, and this route takes a long diversion north towards the Campsie Hills, passing by a housing estate which I recognise as being marked on an Ordnance Survey map I have at home as a 'Disused Showground'.

K seems to be making regular appearances in my dreams lately - I wonder why, since I don't see him that often, and he doesn't occupy especially more time in my thoughts that some other members of my family who never feature (sorry K., don't take it personally!)

I saw my old band last week, which may have triggered their appearance. I never actually used the black Yamaha drum machine with the band. My friend F. told me a while back that his occasional client, Andy Arnold of the Arches Theatre in Glasgow had worked on Vivian Stanshall's 'Stinkfoot' in Bristol, which impressed me at the time and might have prompted the anecdote of the self-styled eccentric. I was in Greenock yesterday (and writing about this rare visit last night) , and that would seem to have prompted its appearance in this dream. The 'Disused Showground' reminds me a bit of Scotstoun in the real Glasgow, which is a functioning showground and calls itself such.

Adventure Holiday

I must have been back at school - two things point to this: the fact that I was on some kind of organised trip to a highland location with a largish amount of people of my own (younger than actuality) age, and the apperance of an old school aquaintance, K. B., who seemed much more friendly than I tend to remember him. The 'outdoor centre' was reached by bus round a long but narrow fjord surrounded by hilly, but not mountainous moorland - resembling the southern part of the Isle of Lewis, by Harris.

The 'centre' itself was fresh and rugged architecture, lots of pine facing and drystone walling. One feature - chairs known as 'lock chairs', in which either side and arm was fashioned as a huge padlock.

I'm struck by how this dream features this same style of building again - what does this mean about me and wood-stone-seventies outdoor structures? I would not read any simplistic meaning into the padlock 'symbol', I'm certain it's not a symbol of anything, more likely a random linguistic or shape-based thing.

Showbiz Party

All over the place with this one, and it was very enjoyable. A big party (or TV recording, or stage show or something), the company not only included my brother B. and friends A. and T., but also Bob Mortimer, Matt Lucas and Mark Lemarr. Even though I didn't know these showbiz types we all got on very well together and the quips were flowing thick and fast. A sort of holiday environment followed with lots of walking (a building with the general layout of St Peter's Seminary, Cardross featured), then a very jolly trip to the vet's with T's labrador, Cabot. The whole gang of us went along and sat at a long, plain table with the vet, a no-nonsense but cheerful lady. I was surprised and embarrassed when Lemarr began to roll a joint, but he exchanged jokes about this with her.

Can't explain this at all ('Shooting Stars' hasn't been on the telly for ages), but once again this seems to be an expression of what must be a deep subconscious desire to take a holiday.

Bus Ticket

The only thing I remember: trying to shield myself from gunfire by holding up a bus ticket (it was all I had in my pockets).

A New Life

Begins as I arrive at small, attractive, modern but rustically-built complex by the sea somewhere in Scotland - judging by the bleached look of stone and wood, and the dune grasses, Western Isles? I am working or studying here, and have been allocated a couple of rooms at the sea-facing end - it is otherwise occupied by people I vaguely know.

Later I am visiting/staying at a much larger complex somewhere nearby. I am accompanied by J. and my friend G. This group of buildings (at times resembling parts of Stansted Airport or Cumbernauld Town Centre) is dedicated to one purpose; people are here to work, and here in substantial numbers. As we explore, we discover not only that the complex includes shops, offices, auditoria and a partially-underground railway station, but also that entrance and exit is strictly controlled. As interlopers without roles or accreditation, we will be unable to leave! We make an attempt to escape by train, but find that unless we are to be discovered, the only way to avoid identity or ticket checks is to return to our station again. Eventually, while exploring some offices (very seventies in style, much tongue-and-groove pannelling), I discover a half-open window. I squeeze through it - G. follows (J. seems to have disappeared by this point) out onto a small balcony/roof area, then drop down into a field of some kind of cereal, and liberty.

Therafter, a dream of paranoia and pursuit. A long journey through fields and lanes, avoiding encounter with any passers-by. At one point we see, rising in the distant sky, a shape somewhat like the silhouette of a stealth bomber... this splits into smaller shapes and rearranges itself, then again - now shapes resembling geese or crows silently reforming above the horizon. This is a grim sight indeed - we know it to be the pursuit (craft?) of the authorities, and necessitates a long period of hiding, attempting to avoid detection from the air. Later I lose G. - a slight feeling that he has either been caught, or decided to make his own way; it's certainly too dangerous for me to try to find him.

Eventually (days later?) I find myself on a small, rocky peninsula, high above crashing waves. I know that I will have to make my new life here, and I feel OK about that. As long, I think, as I am left alone and free from danger. I speculate that there may be a cave further down towards the shore where I can equip myself to survive, and put together my new life.

I seem to remember looking at a map (a road map, and therefore at a much smaller scale than I would like) and realising I was on the coast somewhere near Irvine.

All Quiet

Yep, as I suspected - a dream famine. This could go on for days/weeks - I'll be in touch once it all starts coming back to me.

Car Park

Mainly set around a classy hotel on a cold day. On holiday, or a trip of some kind. Discussing some issue with two disagreeing groups of people in the car park outside.

I suspect I'm heading for a period of dream famine - or at least dream-remembering famine.

London

Was in London - that's all I can remember.

Car Trouble

Can only recall one incident. A lot of driving in this dream (long journey) - at point, I somehow projected myself from my usual clapped-out red Nissan in a smaller, unremembered vehicle. Some time later realised that I had forgotten to bring the Nissan to a halt, and stopped to look for it. I was sure it would have careered into another car, or smashed into a wall, but instead found it had ground safely to a halt and was sitting by the side of the road with engine idling.

All of this happened somewhere closely resembling M8 junction by the Clyde near Langbank, Renfrewshire, on a cold, clear day.

Department Store

Big dream over several locations, lots of travelling; a journey/holiday feeling about it. We were looking after someone's apartment or caravan, then moving on somewhere else. Watching Roman Army re-enactors going through their various formations, decided (for the first time) that it looked like a rather good idea and a fine thing to do. Spent a lot of time in enormous department store with J and others (family?). I felt mildly privileged in some way, as if we were shopping for a present for me. The radio-controlled models section of this particularly well-equipped store was of interest, with some large and fantastically detailed examples of obscure naval vessels. Also remembered from shop stock: an accessory pack for model soldiers who are suppied bald: transparent plastic hairpieces in a variety of styles (short, ponytail etc.) to be painted in the desired hair colour. Their transparency allows a realistic effect to be achieved by brushing lightly, creating a convincingly strandy texture. Fat Boy Slim's ubiquitous 'Right Here, Right Now' must have had some soundtrack role in this dream, for I had it in my head when I woke up.

Nada

Nothing I can really grasp, I'm afraid, from last night. Just a feeling that the issue of 'doing things right' was a theme.

The Penthouse and Suite

J (my wife) and I are living in a penthouse apartment, quite nice - a modern, white-walled building, we have a patio-style balcony. However, the building rises from the top of a hill wooded with young, shabby-looking trees and strewn with odd bits of rubbish. We are adding to this by hurling an unwanted and torn seventies-style suite of chairs and sofa from the balcony. Clearing out, I think. My cousin K comes to stay later on. He has returned to his original engineering career and is about to attend the function of his professional organisation. I comment on the rather regimental 'engineers club' tie he is wearing for the event.

A big dream but not much remembered detail.

'Bob Harding' and Pirate Ship

Throughout the duration, looking after some kind of fairly dangerous domestic animal (black) which I had housed in a mesh hutch/run thing on a (my?) lawn.

At one point, visited huge jumble sale - the ultimate jumble sale, in fact, a warehouse-sized jumble sale. I tried to buy a replica (maybe half life-size) pirate galleon. I found that I had no way of keeping it upright on its keel, though.

Later, was watching a new TV game show entitled 'Bob Harding's Million-pound Fuck-Off'.

Sorry, but I don't make the stuff up. The mystery beast seems to me to be influenced by one of the rabbits which we keep; I'd spent a long time stroking it beside me on a sofa last night.

International Fire

Hazy, but (at some stage) being shown public-information material relating to the possibility of an 'International Fire'. This type of (natural) disaster is the fire equivalent of a pandemic, and I guess it implies that whole countries become ablaze.

It seems pretty obvious that I've been influenced on some level by present concerns regarding Avian Flu.