The service is to take place in an old Nissen hut. We strip old paint from the exterior and I insist we paint the guttering a bright orange. The bullish youth leader wants to turn the whole event into a football match. I am livid. She was my girlfriend so I am the one to decide. I threaten to call the police.
A cleaner is picking up scraps of rubbish on the stage at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Every time he places something in the bin bag there is rapturous applause from the audience.
I am playing a part in a Shakespearean play. I have already missed one cue in the first act, and have lost half my costume. Now I am frantically searching for a script to check my lines. "Don't worry so much about it," one actor advises me, "Relax and the words will come." I run into the courtyard and scream, "NO! I don't know when I come on. I am not doing it. I can't remember ANYTHING."
Tor and I are dancing in the conservatory, twirling ropes of lights around us. The lights spin so fast we seem to almost dissolve. As we slow the movement down I steady Tor to stop her falling.
I meet a trendy couple in Paris who ask me to draw their portrait. I make a delicate collaged image which records all of my thoughts- a drawing with my internal soundtrack. When I play it back to them, my recorded inner voice is moaning at the irritating woman, "Stop complaining all the time. Please just shut up for god's sake".
There is a knock at the door. A group of six mummers are led in and then smartly directed out through the side window. Another knock. This time a longer line of people pour in. I recognise them as acquaintances from my past who I have no desire to see again.
I meet a beautiful man. We are strongly attracted to each other and kiss passionately. I notice his face is covered in acne and his lips are cracked and bloody. Still he seems beautiful to me. I can see myself loving this man for the rest of my life.
We are all a little drunk. I have a slice of cucumber in my pocket left over from last night's dinner party. Fionna suggests it would make a great entrance ticket for my twelve month show at the Dock. We are hysterical with giggles at the idea of everyone having to keep a cucumber slice in their wallet for a whole year.
In a clear-out session Dad has dumped Edward, Big Ted and Judy in a rubbish cart. I am furious and rant at Mum. She says with a tired voice, "But, dear, your father fought in the Second World War for you." I am not sure this is strictly true but acknowledge that I need to keep things in proportion.
Arranged neatly on the table are all the stones and other missiles that have been thrown at the young man during his life.
It is 2 or 3 am. Someone is kicking in my front door while I am looking at nuts and bolts. I try to scream to frighten them off but no sound comes. I am terrified.
I am about to give a talk about my work but I have left my bag at the hotel. I rush back to the foyer to find it is full of bags identical to mine. When I eventually return to the lecture hall half of the audience has already walked out.
If the country falls apart, and there are no jobs on the tills at Sainsbury's, I can always resort to selling my own brand of handmade porn - biro scratched sex animations or plastecine erotica.
I have bought my girlfriend a tiny minidress as a present. While she is in the bathroom I squeeze into it only just getting my shoulder in before she enters the room. "Wow, that is a beautiful dress," she says. "It is for you," I say kissing her. She is naturally thrilled.
There is a grizzly bear in the back yard. He seems friendly enough. I teach him some dance moves. When I return later with my camcorder six huge surly bears have joined him. They eventually leave snarling, but my grizzly remains. He is now wearing shades and looks really mean and unpredictable. I give up on the idea of filming him.
Alice, Hazel and I watch a fashion parade of grim second hand clothes. We assume our role is to buy some of the garments. Too late I realise we have made a mistake and that in fact, tomorrow, we are expected to identify one of the 50 odd models who have paraded in front of us.
A magician appears to grow Gwyneth Paltrow from a strand of hair. Later I find the trick, which is a kind of wig, and playfully place it on Gwyneth P's head as she conceals the rest of her body behind a black curtain. She pushes me away irritatedly- I am not her friend and she does not wish me to come so close.
A young Philippino man is being hounded by the police and press. His only possible choice is to seek refuge with his family who shunned him years ago. Trembling he looks in through the front window at his family. Will they shelter him or abuse him more violently than the state?
David Wojnarowicz shows me his series of alphabet cards. Each makes a theoretical comment on religion through simple imagery and text. I don't understand the jokes. He talks intensely to me but his language is so complex I am not even sure if he is discussing his or my own work.
I invent a useful tool for wheelchair users who have little or no speech. It is a stick with a small pointing hand attached to the end.
Gran has just died. I argue with my sisters about the upkeep of the garden. It is already a mess. "I just want want her back," I sob to Aunty Joan (who died five years ago).
Penny carries a large blue earring in the shape of a chandelier and matching tiered necklace. She places them on the lectern and arranges the mike in preparation for Mum to deliver her formal speech.
We have driven across an iron girdered bridge to France and now find ourselves in a godawful cafe. It is like the worst of British cafes. "You mean we have driven all this way just to be served this filth?" I shout at the proprietor. "We are just simple folk who don't question anything. We have always been so," he replies.
I am building a desktop out of hardboard. A kid watching me is unimpressed and warns me, "Remember it is going to get very bloody. I don't want my clothes messed up."
I am talking loudly to two friends in a restaurant. They tell me I told them the same filthy stories about myself last time. "Was I boring?" "Yes," the stranger to my right says emphatically, "Shut up."
I am returning two black wolves to the heart of the forest.
Using the hand rail I am climbing up the inside of a concrete stairwell to the flat of a friend John who has just died. All the way up are old friends of John's, some are weeping. I greet each in turn. Neil says this is like a rite of passage - a way of saying goodbye.
I am walking with a group of friends. Everyone is gliding along so fast. I am lagging behind, my feet like lead. There is a knack to getting around in dreams - there's no gravity - so you have to remind yourself all the time how to do it and often I get it wrong.
A group of chic middle aged women are on a retreat. Some of the women have been unfaithful to their husbands. One woman's husband has died with shock at the news. She weeps bitterly, "But I hated him - he treated me so badly."
