Weleest

I am with my brother-in-law, Dubya Haitch, and another man and we are drinking shots of some sort of strong misty grey alcohol from a pouring jug. We are sitting outside in a large l-shaped garden. The square timber house that occupies the rest of the plot is split between (I think) myself and another family. Dubya Haitch and the other man leave. I pour a huge glass of the alcohol and then, thinking better of it, pour it back from my tumbler into the jug. I'm worried about getting (more) drunk- 

I am round the other side of the garden, that which could be considered as belonging to my house neighbours. Around the perimeter of the house there are 2 or 3 steps down from a surrounding porch to the garden. My neighbours, an older man and women dressed in a kind of Star Wars shanty style, have opened up the wall of their house, shifting large timber panels here and there, forming a sort of stall that looks onto the garden. 2 border collie dogs run from within and lark around. A child – there are several bustling about – has shaped the words “poor person's doorbell” from curved wood shavings. It takes me a little time to puzzle this out, and there are perhaps more words to the left, but I cannot understand them, and assume it's spare shavings- 

I am sitting with the comedian Stewart Lee in this side of the garden and he is (much to my surprise) capably strumming a rather nice looping refrain on an acoustic guitar. He seems to be singing the lyrics “it rains” and we chat for a bit. I am happy that my joke, referencing “poor person's doorbell”, of “on a rich man's porch” makes him laugh. He walks over to the other side of the garden, joining the rest of the gathered family and, in spite of my concern that he'll be too oblique and alternative for them, seems to fit in perfectly, introducing himself and continuing his strummed song, singing “Oh, it rains!” to a delighted baby. He keeps sweetly singing this tune as a young boy and myself puzzle over how ripe the apples on our tree are. It seems as if one side is ready to eat, the apples fat and red, whereas on the other side they are smaller, grey and faded (yet somehow more natural looking). Kay Emm is there as we eat apples. I wish that Dubya Haitch had not left-