I lost last night’s dream but the one from the night before has stayed with me. I worked at remembering it, willing myself to catch it in my mind’s eye for those first few moments of waking. There were lots of elements to it, that fact that he and I had been living in someone else’s house and, on leaving, and packing all our things together I kept finding objects I knew in their cupboards, like my little white milk jug. Then we were on some sort of train that had no roof. We could see the sky. It was light, though we were going under a kind of tunnel. No, it was an arch, an arch of art. Anthony Gormley’s art. I even managed to just about find his name in the dream. I could see the Angel in the distance but overhead were zinc-coloured clouds with cherubim-like figures within them. As we sped by I saw the artist himself, on show, in a tableau, crouching and wearing a khaki army coat. I pointed him out to P. On arriving at a depot we were travelling down an escalator when I woke.
