I am in a large field, where some sort of mass excursion (possibly from my old school) has recently been completed. We are thronging around the buses, waiting for our groups to be called, so that we can get home.

It is the next day, and I am sitting in a small library, which is possibly in the University. A fellow student strikes up a conversation about the previous evening, which, for the want of any better explanation, I take to be a reference to the odd school trip. We leave together, and I find myself in a perplexing streetscape. It is perhaps similar to York, or another large English town. The street, from my point of view, doglegs to the left, up a hill.

I feel as if I am in a computer game (probably due to the late-night-early-morning-mid-early-morning session of America's Army. Every time I look at a person, his or her name appears in my field of vision. All of the people, however, seem to be neds or otherwise-threatening people.

I branch off the high street, onto a road which combines Queens Drive (having a park on the right-hand side) and Elrig Road (having a railway on the left-hand side). I see some people wearing animal suits (a rabbit, and a short podgy man wearing a feathered cap and a fox's body, are two of the four). I know that this is a sign of a bottle-attack, so I am quite scared.

I am in York, sitting in an American restaurant, with at least five annoying children who seem intent on spilling ketchup on me, and/or starting a food fight. I am sitting at a booth, in a wheelchair. I plot my escape, which will need to be at night, and will need to be towards Thirsk. I work out a route down the York to Thirsk road, and set out along it.

I reach a point where I must cross the road. As the road is a wide, normally-busy dual-carriageway, a footbridge carries pedestrians to the other side. I ascend the bridge quite easily, but there is an Escher-style selection of ramps to take me down to the ground again.

I choose the one that I take to be the correct one. I double back on myself (still in a wheelchair), and reach the ground. At the bottom, there stand five tramps. I hope that they are drunk and friendly, so I say, "Good Evening". And with that, the one in the red jumper murders me.

[An odd recurring dream, in two parts.]

I come home from work, and notice that I have only a short time to get ready for a parents' night at my old school. I rush into my bedroom and pick up some pencils, a sharpener, a rubber, a pen or three, and - eventually - my old Sharp calculator. I get in the car, and am driven to the school, and I am in time.

I come home from work, and realise that I have only a short time to get to the University, where I am to be sitting an exam as part of the January diet. I rush into my room, but only pick up a single black, biro pen.

I get in the car myself, and drive aimlessly and eratically, hoping to find myself near the uni. By chance, I find myself on Great George Street, which is (in the dream) a curved, three-lane road, between the right-hand two lanes of which I veer.

I park in the car park at the end of University Avenue, in the shadow of the Boyd Orr building. It is early in the morning, but I need to buy some stationery, to make up for my shortfall. To that end, I am prepared to pay £20. The first stationery shop on Byers Road is closed, because it is apparently early in the morning. I walk into the second one, and the tired-looking woman is only too happy to sell me sharp pencils, rubbers, and a grey Sharp calculator (like the one above).

I rush out, and into the Boyd Orr. The exam passes in a flash, and two of my friends and myself leave the building, seeking release. We walk into a stand-up comedy club, where it's open-mic. Two of us sit down; my friend stands up, and puts an amusing cardboard placard in front of him. I cannot laugh, however, as it is my turn next.

I am visiting the late comic, Andy Kaufman (although he is dead in real life, in the dream, he is alive). He is a faded comic, whom nobody respects anymore. I am in his house, in his kitchen, trying to convince him that he once was great. We go to visit Steve Martin, a contemporary of his. I knock on the door and announce that I am here with Andy Kaufman. Martin does not open the door and yells at us to go away.

I am sitting in a futuristic setting, like a set from The Matrix or Laserquest, where I am sitting at a computer, playing a game. At the same time, I am speaking to a friend, who suggests calling it a day. I agree, but complain that it takes a long time to exit the game, which is somewhat infuriating. Once I emerge from the game, and switch off the computer, I walk out into a sweeping, curved concourse.

In the concourse, a huge crowd has gathered to watch people on skateboards skate down a ramp that has a line of flamethrowers at the end. Skater after skater is burnt to a crisp. Penultimately, a skater comes down the ramp so slowly that his skateboard does not make it to the wall of fire, and he seems to be saved. Finally, another person skates down the ramp quite quickly, but jumps off and starts running about crazy-like. He throws dark-blue sachets of white powder about the room.

Not knowing what he is throwing, but reasoning, from the fact that he is doing it with such intent, that he intends to maim or kill all of us, I flee. He follows me, however, and I begin to suspect that they might contain Anthrax.

After some time, the world, and space as we know it, cease to be, and I am floating in or shooting through a dark void, next to another of my friends. He implores me to take his hand, and I do - simultaneously changing the shape of the universe into that of a folded arm.

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