Kwoive

I am up close to a large-ish long-haul plane. The pilot, a blonde, sturdy looking woman dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and dark blue slacks, chats casually with a member of the ground crew. From what I overhear I note her Australian accent. Knowing the length of such flights I think that the other pilot must be sleeping (somewhere!). The next 'component' of the plane, immediately behind the cockpit, looks like a long railway container truck, complete with wheels, that sort of clicks into the plane's fusilage ready to be dropped straight onto the tracks. I am inside now and walking through the seating, 2 seats to each side of the aisle – mostly light grey with blue patches to the headrests – and only several rows worth. Beyond that, on my left, two guys are loading great gas canisters horizontally into place, the first of which is being pushed, quite sloppily into its 'holster'. The end with the valve has what looks like a huge slice of lemon or orange around the top (for cooling purposes, I recall thinking). I watch the next guy shove the second canister into its spot and am just a little concerned – what if it's accidentally empty or not fitted or secured correctly? Passing by it seems the rest of the plane is quite sparse, comprising an empty hold of sorts with long banks of intermittent lighting inset into thick trunking running along either side at about chest height. There are two large square 1m x 1m boxes to either side of me. Although covered in tight tarpaulins almost down to the floor I am sure – is my mother with me at this point to verify? - they are (instant) photographic developers. There is a guy, dressed in a smart dark blue and brass buttoned uniform lying on the floor. At first I assume it's the other pilot resting - his head and shoulders are hidden under the left hand bank of lighting – but quickly realise (as another man emerges into the dreamescape and converses with him) that he must be carrying out some sort of electrical repair. The thought (and sight) of this is further cause for concern. Is the plane safe? Soon enough a blank bank of the lighting flickers to life, his job done- 

Kay Emm and I preparing to go on holiday. Our Taxi has just arrived (at what appears to be my childhood home as enough of the environment feels familiar if not quite an exact match). Either Kay Emm or the Taxi driver (who has joined us in the house) takes or makes a call to his next set of passengers (who, I think, we might be picking up en route). There's some confusion about their religious/social stance that ultimately boils down to the fact that, as Kay Emm explains, they will not tip the driver. As we leave, via the back door, I ask Kay Emm if she is sure that everything is switched) off? This query throws us both into an immediate panic and we run back into the house and pace about, pulling back tangles of cable and checking every corner to ensure all the sockets are clear, to check nothing is still plugged in and on. In a far room – that would in my childhood home be as far from the back door as possible, being my parent's room – there is a toaster-like electrical appliance that is sporadically emitting bursts of flame, spitting sparks and ash onto the surrounding fluffy brown carpet. I pause and simply shrug at Kay Emm, raising an accusing eyebrow in her direction. We quickly, and carefully, pull away some (potentially flammable) papers and plastic packing from this fiery device-