Barcoh

The comedian Sacha Baron Cohen lies on his back on table, a sheet draped over him. His hair is short and flecked with grey and he has greying stubble on his chin and cheeks. (There is something Freddie Mercury-ish about him.) I seem to be standing on the left, inhabiting that body and experience, and yet I sense another version of me also stands to my right. It's as if, knowing his comedic background, I am intentionally trolling him with my hands, and I keep placing them in near-inappropriate places to gauge his (often amused) reaction - as he himself (knowingly) knows what I am up to. I place my left hand tenderly on his (stubbly) upper neck. Next I lift the sheet and press the palm of my hand to the side of his stomach, checking on his response- 

I am at my old architectural work. It's lunchtime and a few of us, including Gee Dee are standing outside in a gently sloping alley of sorts, one with occasional stepped sections to help maintain the gentle incline. The surface is a rough concrete and there's another alley that goes off to our left. The sides of this environment are finished in pale, smooth render and it feels like we are having a drink, perhaps a pint of beer. I ask Gee Dee where the firm's other office is, hoping to go there and finish some necessary detailing that afternoon. He says he'll show me and we walk for only a few minutes before we come to it. It has very tall windows to the street, finished with a metal trim several inches above the ground, and there's a bank of several computers within, their screens facing and clearly visible to us. Though the screens are all switched on no one looks to be working there. We try to get in and are admitted by a smartly dressed young-ish British Asian man. He has a round head, his hair sparse on top and his skin is smooth, shiny and youthful. We go into the abandoned computer room – do I fleetingly pass Jay Cee, another former work colleague in the tightly angled corridor? - and discuss what I am hoping to do. This sees me taken through the back to another room where we stop in front of a single monitor. Seeing the complex display I explain that it's not set up for what I want to do, that the programme here is of no use, and that I'd rather use one of the earlier machines. Time is disappearing and I know it is already 4:15. People are talking back and forth, Kay Emm talking to Enn Arr. I am scrabbling in at the side of the metal trim, jamming books into my bag, worried about how I will complete my work-