My dreams are packed-full and busy. A mish-mash of things said, thought and seen during my waking hours, my subconscious is evidently working hard at making sense of it. He’d told me he’d put a downpayment on a houseboat. I stood in it. I remember the carpet and how it was like the one in Amsterdam that I used to clean. Then I was walking around the car park of the Telstar Hotel in Exeter, in the dark, wondering whether, not being a guest, I’d be told off for doing so. And then there was the fridge. Whose was it? I don’t know, but it had no door. How did it keep cold, I think I asked. You see, no sense at all.
