So I have a dream last night. I dream that I am at my parents house in South England. My friends and I are at a bar that we go to in the holidays, which gets pretty full at the weekends. It's a Friday, maybe Saturday and we are dancing around this tiny little bar that's no more that twenty-five meters square.
It's the same bar that H and I had an argument in over Christmas.
In the dream it gets to about midnight we are making our way to a night club. Someone grabs my hand. A blond girl, possibly Chels. I'm unsure as to why it is her, because I don't find her attractive in the least. We're having sex.
And the dream ends and immediately after another begins.
I'm following a man and a woman, both in grey suits, down Corn St. As they turn into the exchange they talk about being journalists and how its illegal to go on television.
I get talking to this girl, I don't know what about. But suddenly a rocket smashes into the wall across the street, sirens scream in the distance, and panic is thrown over the city. Her news team are screaming for her to get in a van; that is full of cloth, and I chase after her.
Only now I'm wearing roller skates and it's hard to stand still. I ask for her number, but I don't have a pen to write it down. So I give her mine, and in the dream I'm saying my actual number but I get the digits mixed up. So she never calls.
I follow the van, clearing the way through littered streets. Congested with work men, plant machinery, and fencing. All the time shouting to the van driver through her window and skating as hard and fast as I can, and I realise that this is Easton, and I wake up.
And I drank last night. Only one drink, but I wish I hadn't. I want to go T-total.