Part 1 took place in some internationally flavoured office on the Continent. Vaguely European Commission.
There was some rather awkward luggage, a sort of composite suitcase made up of three modules. The core was a heavy cubical box, maybe one foot square. One of those telescopic handles to pull it along with. A flat pack was attached to the box, rather like the sort of thing that artists carry their wares around in, perhaps when they are on their way to try for a commission. A regular, if rather large suitcase, was attached to the flat pack. The soft top sort of suitcase, pale in colour.
There was also a rather odd letter, from a Dutch lady, whom I do not know but was able to visualise in her open plan office. A letter which had been hand written in very neat handwriting, then photocopied, with my having the photocopy. A letter which contained some oddly personal (not overtly sexual) material. I was quite unsure as to the meaning of the letter and I thought that perhaps several of us had received versions of the same letter.
Part 2 took place in a similar office in London. Vaguely the late lamented Central Computer and Telecommunications Agency, the headquarters of which used to be housed in Riverwalk House, on the northern corner of Vauxhall Bridge, now demolished in favour of the expensive looking but rather ugly flats illustrated. Hopefully the rather good Henry Moore sculpture will survive in the triangle of public space known as Riverside Walk Gardens.
I made my way to my office through some sort of training course which was going on in the corridor to find that my office had been taken over by a bunch of young people, my having been away for a while. I had trouble finding somewhere to sit and more trouble trying to get online. Disaster.
Part 3 took place in a lift in some very high building which was partially completed and partially occupied.
I was now trying to get out of the building, along with a lot of other people and with my three modules of luggage. Eventually squeeze myself and my luggage into a rather small lift, already rather full of workmen. I find that the lift is going up, right up to the very open and incomplete upper parts of the building. I remember that I am very bad at heights and think that this is going to be a rough ride. I close my eyes and the next thing I know is that I am sitting on the floor of an empty, but much larger, lift, now in the basement. Someone has pinched the large suitcase module of my luggage, leaving me with two modules.
Part 4 took place in a version of the London Underground network.
I now need to get home on the tube and go down some steep spiral stairs into spaces and tunnels which I now think I knew from previous, although not recent, dreams. Maybe quite a few years ago now. Notwithstanding, I get lost and after a while find myself in a very dark tunnel where I can see nothing, but suddenly come out into the courtyard of some old building, complete with a tower with a pointed roof showing up against the night sky. A bit like the tower of St. James the Less in Vauxhall Bridge Road. See reference 1.
Back into the tunnel and find myself more or less on top of some tracks. I need to get across them but think that crossing the live tracks with the odd train coming past was not a good plan. Go back up the platform to find a goods contraption which can take me down, under the tracks and up onto the platform from where I can get my train. Rather a rough railway type (old style, long service British Rail) working the contraption, who manages to crunch up the flat pack module of my luggage. From which, anachronistically, I manage to retrieve my telephone, scratched but otherwise unharmed.
On which happy note I wake up.
Reference 1: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=naamo.
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