I often dream of toilets. Usually they are very public and underground. Last night’s dream was no exception, though this time there were two. With the first it was already occupied. I tried the door but there was no answer. Eventually, a small bustly kind of woman came out looking a little ashamed. There’s a problem, she said. Can you see about it? I went inside. There was a large, very pink, de-shelled langoustine on the ground by the loo. Had she deposited it there from inside of her? I put a cloth over it. She re-entered. Have you contacted management about it? she asked. Then I was in Switzerland and crossing a bridge whose path lead directly into a café that appeared to be closed. (There was a a large piece of paper on the ground with the hand-written phrase ‘there is no coffee being served’ on it.) A couple of men sat at a cloth-covered table. I asked if there was a ladies. One of them pointed at a curtain over which was a little wooden sign that I thought was ‘women’ in Swiss. I pulled aside the curtain and found a tiny toilet with sink and bowl. I bent my head to enter. You can’t fit in there, another of the men said. I proceeded into the room and woke up.
She answered. It took me by surprise. We’ve just come back from a rainy walk, she said. I could hear them in the background, their tiny voices echoing around the small house. She tells me his favourite word is biscuit.