Kay Emm and I are on some sort of coastal walk, very Scottish seaside-ish, at a resort. Somehow we become separated (or rather I seem to dream-skip, suddenly finding myself alone on the other side of a wide bay, the resort buildings, and presumably Kay Emm, just visible in the fading light across from me)-
Taking a decision I continue walking and (with the aid of another quick dream-flit) appear in the seaside town (centre) nearest to this resort-
It's getting quite dark now and I wander through a central plaza, a sad, sparse expanse of dated brown brick paving underfoot with dejected and neglected Council planters dotted at random, a queue of flat-capped people waiting at a primitive tubular steel bus stop-
I wander into a narrow, gloomy side street searching for somewhere to shelter – it has begun to rain, great, fat, sporadic drops at first – and to call Kay Emm on my mobile phone. At the (dead) end of this street is a MECCA Bingo hall, its huge signage casting a strange orange, red and yellow light on to this dingy scene. The bingo entrance on my right I turn to my left, negotiating the sturdy industrial circular tubular steel structure (much like the exposed beams at Glasgow CINEWORLD in their futile attempt at contemporary architectural style) and duck into a damp brick box that is removed from the street, sheltered as it is in the bowels of the opposite building – welcome to the delights of the commercial binstore! As I call Kay Emm, taking care underfoot as there seems to be a central trench, a workie appears and sets about the bins to my right. He's less fortunate than myself and in the dimness he accidentally takes a semi-tumble into this shallow pit, evidently hurting his leg in the progress. In spite of my offer of help, my kindly gesturing, he opts to limp on (and away)-
I tell Kay Emm I am at the bingo and we discuss how we could orientate ourselves and thereby eventually meet up. Then (thanks to yet another dream-skip) we are reunited only now sans car (or so the niggling thought suggests). This means there's further searching to undertake-
We are in some kind of hotel-esque environment and, however much we quietly protest, the sauve, suited man – who looks like the former Chelsea FC manager? - shows us into a meeting room-cum-suite and invites us to wait. Through the glazed entrance wall we watch him chat with a smartly dressed blonde woman. As soon as he returns we make a point of saying we are here by accident and that we're not his intended attendees, being lost, disorientated and really only in search of our car/each other. The chap understands completely, stating to the woman he'll help us and asking that we follow him. I pick/snatch up a crumpled bank cash machine receipt thinking that Kay Emm has maybe dropped it. At first I think the account balance is a six figure sum but closer inspection reveals it is 109.37 (or thereabouts). There's a '6' penned on the back in thick marker. I don't recognise the writing – not Kay Emm's but actually belongs to the woman?-
We are now in a garden centre-ish environment and the managerial type offers to print out a map for us (or at least have one of his secretaries – who all sport the classic 70's white blouse and oversized glasses look – do it for him/us). These ladies sit at cramped workstations in a narrow corridor off the main (manufacturing) thoroughfare. Kay Emm, meanwhile, has successfully connected into her(?) network's WiFi and checked that we ought to head to some (named) building (billboards?). As the now (reading?) spectacled manager sorts this Kay Emm and I happen to notice quite improper 'Health & Safety' signage on the wall facing the crammed in desk, all crude writing on white paper – not the bold black on yellow warnings that one would expect! Not to matter as Mr Manager has a small timber box that can by some means print out this type of stickered sign with the push of a button – all that's need is to select the appropriate phrase from the pre-saved selection on offer. He proceeds to do this, only we remark that the font, a jagged, slanted typeface, is yet entirely unsuitable, pointing out the correct means as per the ideal signage hanging just around the corner from us on the main thoroughfare wall. Of course we don't want to offend this kind gentleman (too much)-
Now we are elsewhere within the same building and I am trying to help display two 3 x Wheeler modern baby prams without toppling their considerable bulks into a crude earthen trench that has been dug (quite randomly!) into the floor. I'm not having much success-
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