Einaeybab

I am back in (a dreamescape approximation of) the front living room of my old Glasgow/Ferry Road flat. I am over by the bay window, finished in brown timber, a wooden dining table and (4) chairs tucked neatly into the tight space. I am attempting to prevent small Beanie Baby-alike animals from getting into the flat (although latterly I am plucking them from in amongst the legs and struts of the dining table chairs). The animals are slightly abstract in appearance but are definitely alive, walking upright, shuffling slowly (and a little mischeviously and sinisterly) in a vague, stop-motion animation manner-

As things progress my playful attempts at carelessly tossing them from the floor and up on to the window cill prove (accidentally) fatal and I kill/murder a small pig in this way, holding it regretfully in my hands as its little life winks out. Finally I seem to do the same to one (of two) little old ladies, again small and slightly abstract in appearance, watching as her inner light fades and she dies in (and by) my hands-

Purtidd

I am at (the dreamescape approximation of) my office work. My old secondary school maths teacher Mr. Marshall appears to be presiding over proceedings. I am due to take my 15 minutes morning tea break but don't leave my seat until 10:20 – I should be back by 10:30! - to run over to Missing Records. I'm cutting it fine and jog on over in the rain, hoping to grab a quick browse before heading back-

I enter the shop to find it is long and snaking (more akin to the original Glasgow Oswald Street Missing shop than anything else). Immediately on entering there is a rack with Bollywood Films ahead of me – one is titled 'Zin' – with a rack of discounted 7” singles on my right. Beyond this is the shop counter, further up on the left, and what appears to be (of most interest to me) the 'items just in' rack to the right of that. As I begin to move forward one of the (familiar) staff says, “alright?”, and ushers me over to the counter and an unfamiliar lady (who nonetheless acts very familiar). She has some promo DVDs of a Japanese Samurai movie, some obscure kung-fu slasher re-release, one of several copies the shop are handing out to loyal customers. I take it out of the paper sleeve, already thinking I'll never be able to make the time to watch it, but instead say that I will view it over the weekend and bring it back next week. The lady says it is no problem and that it is mine to keep. She labours the point and, unable to get away, I bump into Gee Bee from my work. I say to the lady I'll give the DVD to Gee Bee to watch next and this somehow seems to create a stink, the vibe between the three of us, Gee Bee and the lady especially, turning quite sour and awkward, almost insulting. We then seem to get caught up in a weird group hug (from which I'm anxious to excuse myself, mindful that I must now be quite late back for work)-

As I race across the road – it's 10:38 – a guy shouts me back. I must have dropped my rail pass and a single passport photo as I jogged to Missing Records and they've been languishing in the wet for near 10 minutes. I thank the guy profusely, thinking to myself that this is turning into a sh*t day, and stuff them back in my (unzipped) pocket. I figure I might make it to work not too late – Gee Bee is often late and no one seems to bother about that. The problem is-

I am lost! I cannot seem to find my bearings at all and am sure that in all my frantic and muddled running I have completely overshot the office building. I stop outside an old red sandstone building. It is now gently sunny. A burly Arabic man and his young son are climbing up the face of this building (in an attempt, I assume, to get their bearings too). Thinking this a a sound course of action I proceed to do the same. I climb up to what is the first floor (although it feels MUCH higher) and walk along a ledge to my right. From the vantage of where the building turns the corner I can see my (modern) office (architectural monstrosity) looming over its surroundings in the near distance-

Naturally my descent proves far harder than my ascent. For one thing the Arab and his son have vanished (around the corner?) and the face of the building has grown much more narrow – I cling desperately to each and every available handhold, gingerly probing with my feet for a steadying support to safely assist my way. Timber window frames splinter and loosen in my grip and the stonework is similarly weak, crumbling the moment after I assume a firm handhold. In this slow, and somewhat terrifying, manner I make little speedy progress. At one point, peering into a stone corner a realise that an eye, a yellowed, ancient eye, is staring back out at me. I completely fail to register it at first then, looking again, I become quite transfixed, totally hypnotized... After staring into this unblinking orb for a very long time I utter a strained, “thank you”, and continue on my way-

Back on the ground at last I am more or less immediately surrounded by a gaggle of my work colleagues, a frantic 'search party' sent out to find me after my failure to return. Arr EmmCeePee makes some remark about drugs as I gush my way through a recollection of my experience with the staring eye up on the building-

Sgrall

I am with my father back in (a dreamescape approximation of) our old Largs home. We are in the garden discussing his plans to repair the dividing wall between ours and our neighbour's property. The wall as it exists looks fairly new with the exception of the middle third which, being of traditional stone, is aged and crumbling – it is also not as tall as the sections of wall to either side which, this odd interruption aside, do seem to flow height-wise as an intended whole. My father is saying how he will remove the older wall and infill that part as well as adding a metre or so in height along its entirety – as the neighbour's home is elevated it ought not to affect their vantage-

I am in an office contemplating whether I should accept an offer to travel solo to the moon – one sits cross-legged in a small spherical craft to make the journey (only I am unsure of my ability to fly such a machine). I am being coaxed by a Lewis Hamilton-alike who is already on the moon. Eventually, following much anxiety, I accept and (after a sudden dreamjump) am there, tucked into my little sphere all ready to go. Unfortunately, as smooth and problem free as the journey was, now that I have landed on the moon there is some fault with the sphere's mechanism that ought to provide me with food-

I am overjoyed when I realise that my friend Ayy Ess has a comic strip starting in the Daily Express newspaper, some futuristic tale about a mallet-headed individual who rides atop a flying, winged double decker bus – this is part of a feature announcing that the strip is 'coming soon'. I remark to Kay Emm that he had another strip a while ago but that it fizzled out somewhat-

Suriv

I am working in a bookstore in the United States. It has either just reopened or finished reorganising after (a wave of) a deadly virus. We are restocking books on to racks – I clearly remember the spot on the floor where a sanitiser-cum-sink stood, housed in a tall, square cross-sectioned natural finish timber upstand-

One of the (two) tall windows to the front of the shop, to the right, has been replaced with an opaque red pane – apparently this has been newly installed to provide some protection from a forthcoming storm. A young Bruce Dern-alike is making a good point about how come the other window, the one that happens to overlook his section of the store floor, has not been similarly upgraded. Another member of staff quips that it is because he is expendable-

I then make the mistake of pumping a hand sanitiser, the long tube/spout of which seems to stretch over the top of the till/computer station. There is an immediate fuss and we all cluster around the screen to the front – I pumped from the back – to see if it is still working. It is! Then it isn't... the screen striped with white vertical lines before suddenly cutting out. I then attempt to fill the till, which has a tiny cash drawer (full of paperclips and wire ties). What I assume to be money is much the same, packs of paperclips and fat wire ties about an inch long. I suggest, given the risk of spreading the virus, we only accept 'contactless' payments and the inter-staff debate that ensues means that my “can I help you” towards a waiting female customer, who has been roundly ignored, is too late. I then turn to my right and ask the same of a young mother with a pram-