I am in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport, trying to book a ticket back home to Glasgow. I find a sly Irishman, who offers me a Ryanair ticket on that very route (which is odd, considering the airline operates flight to neither London Heathrow, nor Glasgow International). I leave the tiny departure lounge through frosted, sliding doors, with green stickers in the middle of them.
I emerge into a scary-seeming Terminal 1 check-in area. The ceiling is at least as high as that of a hall in the SECC, only it is painted a sickly colour of white, with pillars of the same colour supporting it. In between the pillars are immense trapezoidal walls of brown and black brick. Dwarfed by their surrounds, in the middle of each of these walls is a tiny set of double doors.
[On seeing this scene, I remember a recent dream that I had, in which I was walking along the outside/taxi rank of a terminal at Heathrow, and unable to find a way in, except down a precariously steep staircase into the Underground station; another in which I was in Heathrow, and I found a disgusting, red-tinted restuarant; and another one in which I wandered around the same airport like a lost soul, having got a ticket, but nobody with whom to travel.]
I head northwest, or right, along the inside of the wall. I keep following this path, expecting at any moment to arrive in Terminal 2, and the place I believe the abovementioned restaurant to be (as I vaguely remember it being a Pizza Hut). However, I continue on through an undulating corridor, with windows on the wrong (ie. right-hand) side, and painted institutional. I pass some people, having a contretemps, and eventually end up at the bottom of a flight of stairs, before a metal door, with a peep-hole in it.
The scene is instantly familiar to me, from a (fictitious) e-mail that my brother sent me. The caption had something to do with it being an entirely pointless door. I look through the peep-hole, and, as the e-mail predicted, I see the upturned bare foot of a trailing leg in the bottom-right corner of the lens.
Somehow, I end up on the other side of the door, and I double back on myself, in order to return to the terminal. My trek takes me over terracotta- and slate-tiled roofs that would be more at home in Italy or France. I eventually end up at the roof-top taxi-rank that I alluded to in the first of the three remembered dreams.
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