Uxwallot

In a town street (Largs?). I am passing a simple house garden on my right – a neat square lawn sticks in my mind – and I see (who I think I recognise as) Jay Eff's mother. She is slightly ill-defined and I struggle to make her out, her face/head a blur, reduced to a sweep of wiry blonde (to the point of being white) hair. I am sure it cannot be Mrs Eff as I recall hearing that she had passed away-

I walk on past the gable end of a(nother) house and look over to my right. It has a straightforward window-front door-window elevation to the street, finished in a porridge-grey render. Beyond this the garden continues and I see, from the back, a young woman walking away from me, heading from the house to the shed/garage. She has her blonde hair tied back and I am certain this is Jay Eff herself (a girl from my schooldays) although I never see her face-

I walk on past this scene and turn up a narrow lane, hedged in on both sides. Part of me is worried that this in fact the private access to a neighbouring house but it seems to lead to a small network of allotment-style enclosures. I am standing in the enclosure that belongs to Jay Eff – I am sure of that, spying her father? - and there is some large engine-esque machinery there, thundering away. There are odd, thick stripes of blue paint appearing too-

Yefuld

I am in a car in some remote Dutch hinterland. The window is wound down and I am flirting with the pop singer Rihanna. I'm not sure what we are saying – I'm vaguely aware of calling her (behaviour) crazy. I drive/am driven off and leave her twirling and dancing in the middle of the road, much to the annoyance of the other passing locals (who cannot understand her). Leave her with a wide shot of the barren landscape, save for a small roadside house, the landscape as if filmed from a helicopter-

I turn up late for some meeting, making my apologies and taking a seat. A man of about a similar age to myself, firmly enough built with cropped balding hair on top asks if he can put on some music. He puts on Earth 2 (Special Low Frequency Version). Eventually the man chairing the meeting says that he just cannot stand the endless droning guitars. The other guy apologises and says he will change the record. He proceeds to put on another Earth album – which, in my head is Thrones and Dominions, but with the cover from Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light II – and says that it is the same song recorded over and over, but better each time. It certainly has that newer minimal Earth style, the sluggish, spindly minimal guitar and repeating piano motifs. During this I seem to be judging pen and ink drawings that have been submitted (for a competition?) to this gathered committee. The pieces I see - oddly they are pinned to the table top with a single pin, a covering letter(?) on top - are not particularly impressive, being mostly abstract linework with muddy ink washes. I struggle to make out anything that I recognise. (Have I submitted some drawings for this committee/competition too?)-

I am now outside in the street, following two young women. The buildings are 2-3 storeys tall the streets set on a very tight grid with no discernible pavements to speak of. We are very near the shore and there are intermittent pends through which the sea is visible. In fact, the sea often rushes through these pends, threatening to sweep anyone who is caught in its path away. I panic as the two women nearly suffer such a fate. Some of the pends have tall timber slats to prevent this, and at one point I simply stand and look at this scene. I think that my friend Vee Dee is in this area too and am concerned that he has been swept out to sea. I notice that some of the pends have metal shutters that slowly slide down over the slats for a complete seal-

Raeki

I am in a shop. It is large and spacious inside, dimly lit with a dusty and slightly musty feel. There are large (covered?) windows to the street, the suggestion of sunlight creeping through, to give a quiet church-like feel. A long simple timber counter faces these and runs, with a break in the centre for access, across the width of the premises. The floor is exposed timber floorboards, again dry and dusty. Some junkie guy is trying to sell the owner (someone I know?) a small green plastic dinosaur. The owner offers him £51 for it. I get to examine the piece – it certainly looks very old and its sinister sculpted head sports a malicious grin – while the seller protests about the price. I gently push the dinosaur back into its (unusual, avocado skin-like) slipcase as the seller says something about it having a chipped tooth. He then, evidently dissatisfied, goes off to get his “mate". I go over and stand in the gap in the counter, explaining to the owner that should the pair of them try any 'strong-arm tactics' to achieve a better price then I'll be sure to back him up. (Has there been another sale/transaction before for exactly £51?) The “mate” is as I expected, a shambling, unkempt individual, moving as if underwater. He is totally washed out, his entire person faded to a khaki monotone. He has a wide, battered face topped with a thatch of unruly hair. Someone says he has a heart condition. From the very off his manner switches between put upon and confrontational. Indeed, at one point, things get physical between us and as we warily circle one another I take aim to nudge him in the chest (quite aware of his 'diagnosis'?) while he lamely brandishes a slender piece of timber trim-

(The altercation over/unresolved) I notice wide white shelving (that has just appeared in the dreamescape) over to the right of the shop. Of the huge, fat books on the left shelf I can just about discern 'The Stainless Steel Rat's Guide To Film', working back from the stylish ink drawing on the wide green spine. To the right on the middle shelf (of 3) I realise I am looking at some huge collection of AKIRA. Housed in three large, Scalextric set-esque boxes the books are split into volumes 1, 2 & 3, volumes 4, 5 & 6 (though I also read this as '6, 6, 6')and volumes 7, 8 & 9. I am sure the first and third volumes also contain accompanying VHS video cassettes. There's a circular orange tag taped to the shelf above that states the entire collection is reduced to £30 (by either £20 or 20p, I'm unsure). I say I was never told they had this in their stock and the owner comes over to explain that a guy from Pink(?) Street sold it to them so it's likely to be damp/damaged. He then dips his hand into one of the boxes and when he removes it it is dripping wet. He laments the fact that he didn't check it more thoroughly at the time. Last I recall is some accompanying magazine lying open on a (also just appeared) table in the centre of the space - alongside the text on the right hand page there is a two-thirds figure ink drawing of Kaneda, in his classic standing gun pose, the paper all wrinkled and warped from the damp-

Hooltfur

I (know I) am in a large cinema complex. I am negotiating the warmly lit access corridors, being very theatrical, with sweeping stairways and ornate, golden features on the walls. Do I work here? I am carrying a large clear plastic bag with 3 fancy dress costumes in it, two dark suits to either side of an astroturf green catsuit with glittery gold lapels and extravagant white pom poms to finish. I am stopped by a member of the cinema staff – I seem to know them all, but cannot exactly define my (working) relationship to them. I am angry and frustrated at this small, stocky fellow who intercepts me. He has a large ball head, shaved close, a loop earring in his right ear and thick, round spectacles over his small, narrow eyes. I protest that he ought to know that the costumes I am carrying were purchased somewhere else and that I am not trying to steal them from the premises. The costumes are then (somehow) taken from my bag – and in the process they seem to multiply to more than three, including a rather garish, pantomime-esque Robin Hood onesie – and the gathered staff, mocking me, put them on and quickly disperse. I am furious-

I am walking across a stone bridge over a body of shallow water. Looking over I can clearly see the bottom, the largest stones breaking the surface. I am in pursuit of an ill-defined individual, hoping to get one of my costumes back (as well as mete out some justice) when I catch up with him on the far bank. Swimming in this water are several small fleshy creatures. They have bodies shaped much like a human, only more fluid and flexible, twisting and turning this way and that in the flow of the water. There's a suggestion of a skin-like film or web that stretches from each wrist back to under the ribcage. At the top of the neck, and it is a long, similarly flexible, limb there is no head as such, ending as it does in a four fingered hand (although the hand is smooth, the digits round and cartoonlike). I watch these strange creatures weave here and there-

I have caught up with a woman with a pudding bowl haircut and a long, tired looking face. She is soaking wet, her dark blue suit, complete with large, fabric covered buttons, is damp and saturated. I remonstrate with her for taking my costume and, in a moment of absolute frustration – I have spied the suit trousers lying in a sodden heap on the ground - I slap her face. She looks at me with much the same expression as I fixate on the sight of the sodden trousers-