Wogert

I am with (a young version) of the musician Roger Waters and a vague ill-defined woman. Roger's mantra seems to be “f*ck it!”, and a loud exclamation of this prompts many rash actions, including sliding and skidding carefree down a steep sandy slope on our bottoms to a beach. I draw the line at the next, smaller, slope as it's more akin to rubble, and not the sort of surface you'd giddily slide down. I'm aware we need to be at my parents' house for dinner – I can see the uncooked fillets of fish, isolated in my mind's eye, awaiting us – but have no means of contacting them, although I keep referring to my mobile for the time. It's 5:05 – did I doze off? -