Thursday, 24 December 2020


I am at a woman's house, sitting at a wooden table in her kitchen. She is dressed quite formally and sits up straight, her fine (if a little strained) features framed by a short, curly 1930s-ish hairstyle. I seem to be keen on knowing the time, thinking that after a certain hour (10 or 11pm) I must contact Kay Emm to inform her of my whereabouts/safety. Unfortunately my (smart) phone seems to have been hacked/encrypted by some form of (Japanese) virus. Whenever I attempt to access it to send a message the screen adopts a fuzzy tv-esque pixellated picture, a classic arcade machine 'Space Invader' graphic in purple on an off-white background. I try several times to send a message and eventually give up in frustration-

Someone is packing (my belongings?) into a case on the table, carelessly jamming them in. I am aware, though not exactly how, that I have spilled my great oversized mug of tea – it seems to simply slide and fall perfectly from the table, the contents splashing on the floor and wall. I feel I am making a point about slavery (although the woman considers it a mockery) as myself and two jazz-suited older black men – complete with pencil moustaches and pork pie hats – wipe the slop of my tea, which now somehow has a brown and white mixed colour and the consistency of melting, gooey ice cream, from the skirting. Does the supposed offence relate to the death of one of the black men's fathers (or Malcolm X)?-

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