Spinvad

I am at a woman's house, sitting at a wooden table in her kitchen. She is dressed quite formally and sits up straight, her fine (if a little strained) features framed by a short, curly 1930s-ish hairstyle. I seem to be keen on knowing the time, thinking that after a certain hour (10 or 11pm) I must contact Kay Emm to inform her of my whereabouts/safety. Unfortunately my (smart) phone seems to have been hacked/encrypted by some form of (Japanese) virus. Whenever I attempt to access it to send a message the screen adopts a fuzzy tv-esque pixellated picture, a classic arcade machine 'Space Invader' graphic in purple on an off-white background. I try several times to send a message and eventually give up in frustration-

Someone is packing (my belongings?) into a case on the table, carelessly jamming them in. I am aware, though not exactly how, that I have spilled my great oversized mug of tea – it seems to simply slide and fall perfectly from the table, the contents splashing on the floor and wall. I feel I am making a point about slavery (although the woman considers it a mockery) as myself and two jazz-suited older black men – complete with pencil moustaches and pork pie hats – wipe the slop of my tea, which now somehow has a brown and white mixed colour and the consistency of melting, gooey ice cream, from the skirting. Does the supposed offence relate to the death of one of the black men's fathers (or Malcolm X)?-

Twudikk

Intuition tells me I am at my old childhood home, although much of the environment is altered. I am inspecting the floor by the fire, looking at it in great detail. The fire is an old fashioned electric effort with moulded, coloured logs and mounted in a plain rectangular timber frame. The tiling to the front of the fire unit is lumpen and misshapen as if forced up and displaced from below. This seems to worsen as I look at it, the subfloor now seemingly stretched and exposed, the tiles further buckled and broken. The damage is not limited to the tiling and I notice, to my absolute dismay, that one of our front windows is cracked in by the frame. My mother and I, both deeply upset, hug each other, lamenting the costs of this unforeseen damage- 

I deduce that this ongoing damage has been caused by something acting from the outside of the house. My two brothers and I go out into the (dark) street to investigate. To our left, a few houses down from us, a 'gas' van is parked, visible in the orange glow of the streetlights. The van's back door (to access the trade materials) is sitting open. A heavy-ish guy in his mid-50s – he has tousled hair and sports thick NHS-style glasses and wears sturdy, reflective clothing – wanders over to it and my brothers and I take turns to remonstrate with him. It transpires he has been doing some “essential” gas supply upgrade in the area, drilling and adding extra pipework, and we are outraged that he is doing so without (at least) notifying the homeowners. I call the guy “a f**king moron!” to his face – of course, I instantly regret it, knowing that by insulting him I have weakened our case against him. He just takes of his glasses and smirks. This attittude of quiet amusement further fires the flames of my wrath and I bristle with intense frustration-

Kruzzle

I have just moved into my new home (alone, it would seem, although a young woman with long blonde hair seems to be on the peripheral of the dreamescape and a few times I seek her out to ask her some quick-answer questions about the place, though she makes little further impression on me). There is a large sloping Velux window (that feels like it should be a roof/attic access but it looks to be just above ground level). Also located in its vicinity is a a perspex dome – instinct tells me the previous owner installed this. Two soft toys, one of which is the cartoon character Krtek (Mole) are perched on the rim of the supporting structural framework within which the dome is fitted- 

The basement is a vast, dark cavern and twice, when looking towards the stair/entrance, I can almost discern a menacing monster taking shape to the right. It seems to merge and emerge from its surroundings – part of my fear stems from my inability to asses its shape, to judge the actual threat – and is slow and ill-defined, its mouth yawning like some great, warped Jim Henson creation (complete with closed glove puppet throat). Both times I escape just as the creature begins to consolidate in form and activity- 

From the Velux window I watch several (what are best described as) futuristic dropships – white, compact jets with stubby engines that rotate as required for flight and landings – fly in over the house and and touch down in a nearby yard. (It's as if the Velux window moves around with me to follow the flow of the action, as I always sense that I am looking through it as events unfold. Similarly, I often talk to someone unseen in order to voice my thoughts/concerns, the dreamescape by turns crowded and solitary.) At this point I remark to someone that something big is going down as, duh!, look at all the activity. Shortly, looking away from this landing site, with its blunt, functional military-esque buildings, it's as if I suddenly realise a section of a great towering building is crashing to the ground. I commentate on the scene as it unfolds and as my minds puts it into focus – or is it in fact one of the dropships taking an unexpected tumble? I rush and open the front door(?) of the house and am confronted by a scene of apocalyptic devastation – shell-shocked civilians stumbling aimlessly amidst ruins and debris, the air thick with dust, draining the scene of colour, giving the entire scene a grey, washed-out look. I stand and gesticulate, keen that the dazed survivors come indoors to (relative) safety. I distinctly recall a young-ish woman with long curly ginger hair ambling by blankly, her eyes wide and uncomprehending- 

The sloping Velux window (now) has a brown sheet over the bottom half, pinned (by the previous owner) in place at each corner. I try to take the sheet down, quite a tricky operation that puts me at an awkward stretch as I reach out for it. The sheet is almost like parchment paper and comes away easily in my hand, perishing as it does so- 

I am gripped and hugged suddenly, the dreamescape now populated by jolly couples congratulating me, talking of how they popped by for a surprise (to me!) housewarming party. One chap in particular, a smiling, heavy-set fellow with curly hair and a pencil moustache, lingers in the mind, having hugged me (too) enthusiastically. I am uncomfortable with this large uninvited throng and hope to usher them out the door- 

Again I experience the same tense event twice. It seems everyone is crowding onto the stairs (down, near the Velux?) and tempers are slowly fraying. At the furthest point from me – I am looking down onto the scene, the stairs going away from me down to a landing then turning and continuing down – on the far corner of the landing an argument or fight seems to be breaking out. A sharp featured youth, freckled with blond curls, is lashing out at a young girl who is squashed in near to him. The whole group react to this outbreak, by turns protesting and squealing- 

(In the midst of this) a young, thin British Asian guy, with a long, finely featured face and a shock of inky dark curly hair is working on the house electrics. There are miscellaneous wires hanging from the wall at about head height and he is turning a screw to adjust something (held in place by pieces of yellow plastic). Have I (also) witnessed this before or am I watching closely to learn how to do these repairs myself? He remarks on the quality of the electrical install – we both agree it is poor- 

To access the house there is a long cobble lane – about 3 metres wide – with tall grey painted hoardings on each side. The cobbles are damp and wet, and the scene disappears in a straight line into the misty distance. As I am walking up the lane an Indian woman in her mid 50's, wearing a colourful sari/trouser outfit, is coming towards me. She is the tarot/fortune teller who works/lives here – there are two gates in the hoarding to my right which have some such worded signage on them (as well as the word 'GOD' spray painted in red). As she sashays towards me she says, in passing, “God” and I reply something about not saying that as I've had a weird weekend and it freaks me out. She is quite amused by this proclamation and continues her leisurely, and slightly sensual, stroll- 

I am talking to a man who has approached me in the lane and am angered when he asks me if I would allow for it to be narrowed. He owns a glass company and it would be to his benefit as it would make his storage yard, currently jam packed with great slabs of glass, stored upright in protective timber frames, much larger. I take umbrage at this suggestion as I feel the only reason he is being polite to me is because of this very reason, and I make sure that he registers my annoyance/disappointment-