Vondelopsh

Myself and an (ill-defined) A. N. Other are looking into a gloomy room with a table ahead of us. There the singer Sophie Ellis Bextor (or a very good lookalike) is holding court. She produces two envelopes and removes two card statements she wishes us to read. The first I cannot remember but the second says something like, “every minute of every day someone somewhere is being raped.” or “somewhere every moment a man is raping someone.” The impact and shock of this statement is inevitable. She then asks to hear my thoughts on this and I am unable to express myself, caught off guard, making excuses and stumbling over my words – it's an undeniable and harrowing thought -

The dreamescape now transports me outside and I suddenly realise that to my left, emerging out of the anonymous, ill-defined crowd, is my former work colleague Gee Ess, his father standing to the left, nearer to me. I go over (somewhat mindful that Gee's father died over 20 years ago, before he and I ever met). His father is quite surely "played" by the Australian actor Terence Donovan (Jason Donovan's father). I as I get closer, close enough to shake hands, I see that Gee's father has leathery skin, tight and brown over his tired, sunken features. He smiles and acknowledges me but with visible effort. After the father ambles off (around some sort of shallow outdoor pool) Gee remarks that he's not doing well as he is “stiff” (whatever that means). Gee and I continue to catch up and, as we go up and across a sort of railway-esque bridge (presumably over the aforementioned pool) he asks, “have you heard about the Ogilvies?” I admit I haven't, all the while racking my brain, thinking he may be referring to the marriage of one Mark ?, an old mutual friend -

Gee Ess and I then continue around the left side of the pool (following in his dad's shaky footsteps) which is formed from a sort of chunky slabbing that runs into a sturdy and primitive bus shelter-alike stepped structure. I'm busy making some point about being young and having no motivation and all the time, as opposed to being old with no motivation but no time (or words to that effect) when I spy the author Stephen King poking his head around the corner of this construct. He is smiling and in complete agreement - “how true.” We're almost past but I cannot resist praising Mr. King (whilst apologising profusely for doing so) on his novel 'salem's Lot. I begin by saying I'm 46 years old and thought it was time, considering my father is a lifelong fan, to read one of his books and explaining, not always clearly, how much I admired the writing and the way that one's imagination takes over, creating another layer of true horror/dread. As I wrap up this muddled appraisal a gaggle of fans come by and accost Stephen -