Kay Emm and myself are back at the old ground floor flat we used to live in – although the dreamescape has made the interior much brighter, far fresher and the place is more open plan, the front door opening into the sunlit living room. The (new) owner is not there-
A guy who lives on the top floor, a friendly chap with a stubbly beard, is talking to us together with his mother. He is going on a trip/holiday and asks if he can leave his giant rucksack and other luggage here so that, come his pick up time at 3 or 4 in the morning, he's spared the inconvenience of having to heave the epic load all the way from the third floor. We agree that this arrangement is fine and the pair of them leave-
(Much later) I am suddenly gripped by an intense fear. What if the new owner is not in as this agreed time? How will -?- get his bags? 12:39. I have to get down there. Should I walk it? Kay Emm and I hastily get our clothes on. Between us we decide to take a taxi – which somehow turns into taking a taxi to meet a (specifically requested) even larger taxi. There is now 9 of us?! At first it seems that this group is formed of relatives but it soon transforms into a family (of Iranian/Saudi origin) that are accompanying us. It's a wonder we are all able to squeeze into the taxi and two central armrests have to be folded up to create the necessary number of (legal) seats to accommodate us-
The ride through the dark city is tense and, as we approach the block of flats from the rear, I am eagerly looking to spot any sign of life – a light in the window, say, would obviously indicate the owner is home. It's not until we draw up out front that my fears are allayed. I can see some light escaping from between the ground floor window blinds. My only task now is to head up to the top floor to explain the situation to -?- - he mustn't mention we were in the flat to the new owner-
Before it's time for him to come downstairs I creep past my old flat and head upstairs, the close/stairwell becoming increasingly narrow and tight as I ascend. At the top I am confused by the name plates on each of the (undersized) front doors, and tentatively knock on the one to my right. The door is answered by a smiling lad with curly black hair, his beaming face looming unusually large against the reduced backdrop. He explains that -?- is already downstairs(?) and I immediately race off in that direction, able to grip the handrail so firmly with one hand that I can vault each run of steps, my feet barely touching the ground the whole time of my descent-
I meet -?- on my way down. He is with the supermodel Emily Ratajkowski (or someone who looks very like her – I'm not sure) and we stop and chat. They seem a little stretched, both their two shoulders definitely narrowed and rounded (almost so they can be comfortably fitted into my point of view). While we walk and talk I cannot help but stare at Emily R., trying (in part) to work out if it is really her or not. My last(ing) impression of the dreamescape is the image of -?- and Emily disappearing into my old flat, the deception(?) complete, the merest glimpse of the new owner's legs as she shuts over the front door, the bright light from within winking out as she does so-
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