Wattin

I have a strange white blob, about half the size of a pea, perched on the tip of my finger. It is pasty pale and has a consistency akin to cooked pasta. Has it been in my mouth – did I taste it? It seems to be, ever so slightly, shifting and contorting, gently buckling and folding in on itself. There is a huge piece of almond-shaped, treated and stained wood and I carefully transfer the blob with gentle brushes – it must have some sticky, adhesive quality – from the tip of my left pinkie finger and into a suitable split in the surface of the timber (which is covered in such rends, scars and openings, presumably for effect). Once I am sure the blob is settled I- 

It is the next day (?). I am peering into the piece of wood and can see, via a sizeable split, that it is in fact hollow and that the small blob has grown and is roaming inside it in a fearsome tangle. It now resembles a mass of pasta more than ever, tumbling from side to side restlessly- 

The next I see the blob it has been removed from the wood and is dead, attacked and hacked into two pieces (using a spade?) by Kay Emm's boss. (It seems all of her work are there and we might be inside, or near, her office.) Gee (her boss) is shoveling each half into separate black binbags, explaining that the mass had killed someone and that-

Hodryt

I am in Margate, staying at a sort of hotel/squat that is part inspired and part overlorded by Peter Doherty of The Libertines. (I see him shambling about a couple of times, a woozy but imposing figure with his tousled urchin hair and obligatory stained vest.) Somewhat unusually the entire structure is lying over on its side at 90 degrees to normal! ...although it does not seem to affect/impede anything whatsoever – for instance all the WC's, etc. are the correct way up. I keep marvelling at the fact that the local council allow it to stay open at all, especially given how busy and bustling it is. I am sharing a “room” on the building's large flat “roof”. It is very basic and more of a semi-open construct than an actual room. Everything seems to be painted in a magnolia to yellow colour, with dated 70's-ish timber trims- 

There is some sort of football tournament taking place and I need to register – contestants, and there are 50-100 of them, each sport a deep red vest top with a bold black number on it – when I get talking to a huge friendly black guy who is sitting on a bench (on the roof). He has, in proportion to his body, a smallish head with a short beard and cascading, tatty dreadlocks. His body looks to get much broader as it nears the ground, his legs like great thick trunks. He offers me a draw on a fat joint and, even though I'm hesitant and much more keen to enrol, I accept. On my second draw I somehow inhale a mouthful weed and tobacco (or so it should be, but as I can picture/taste this mix it comprises green fragments and a fine, white, soft grit). I dare not swallow as I fully expect the effects of the drug will be disastrous on my 'lightweight' constitution, rendering me completely incapable. The big guy stands up. At this point I notice that he seems to be missing the lower half of his left leg, the trouser tucked and flapping(?)- 

I am on my own looking for somewhere to spit the soggy mix, knowing I'm swooshing it about inside my mouth and slowly, bit by grit, I can see and sense I am swallowing it off. The tournament is now underway – I am aware I have a ball but not a vest – and countless folk are running about in a throng, kicking/handling their own footballs. I try to avoid it, to find somewhere secluded to be sick. I go near a wire fence but shy away when two competitors bustle in. I go to a small lavatory construct, but am put off by the two guys in there who are mop-slopping the short urinal trough formed in the red tile floor. Eventually I find a small stair and kneel, wretching and being sick in the corner under-

Leenth

Feels like my Grandpa's house/location in Netherlee, Glasgow. I am there, although the actual dwelling I am in is definitely not the same – just an overall familiarity to the environment. My little brother and I are in bed together – we are young, sharing the same double bed such as we did when required (to stay over) as children. My brother is under the sheets which are kicked down on my side. Feels like early morning light. The bed faces a long rectangular window that overlooks the neighbouring house's slated roof. There are two SVP pipe outlets that stand about a metre high, and they emerge from a surrounding lead flashing. Four kids, all younger than us – their ages ranging from about 2-10 years old – are playing there. There's a boy of around 7, with close cropped ginger hair and a round-ish head, who is the most active, dodging and yelping between the pipes while the others look on, giggling. This scene seems to play over. The young toddler – I know his name is Shaun – hugs the SVP on the right hand side. He then, quite suddenly, drops off the edge of the roof. This is a stunning moment and seems to bring a vivid rush of parental warnings as to the dangers of playing there to the fore. I am quite sure Shaun is dead, dreading it, after falling 2 (or 3?) storeys. There is a huddle of concerned folk around him as he lies static on a slab path in the garden. He is, in fact, alive, and he moves, seemingly unharmed- 

I finish up a meal and put my plate into a huge sink. It is very tall from the floor, with a timber trim to the worktop, being about the size of (if not bigger than) a bath. It is quite angular, built with a buttress for pipework in the middle of the wall side. There are several dishes and some cutlery sitting in it already. I feel that I am (staying) at my friend Jay Gee's but cannot ascertain if it is the same house as above- 

I am outside and lingering in a large, green field area. Trees over to my left with a well-worn narrow path running across. I am waiting (for my brothers or for Jay Gee?) to continue on a walk with them (to?). I see my little brother, with a rucksack on his back, cross the path. I don't make a move-