In this block of flats all the front doors have keys but each flat also has a tall narrow back entrance which is never locked and is hung with red velvet curtains. It is accepted that no-one uses these doorways apart from the owner. I enter one by mistake. An old woman inside pushes the door to, like it happens all the time.
Mary has had an elaborate granite waterfall installed in her lounge. Someone sits on one of the slabs and the whole thing nearly collapses. "You need to watch that, Mary," I advise , "you could have a nasty accident." She explains that the stones are all balanced very delicately."It's fine," she says, "It is supposed to be like that."
I am arranging two display panels of small foil discs as part of a police campaign to find the perpetrator of a recent spate of robberies. I have a strong sense that somebody is going to get the dates all wrong.
It is night time. Tor and I have broken into someone's house. It's small, neat and sparsely decorated. SSSH I can hear someone in one of the back rooms. Quick quick we have to get out fast turn the light off in each room come on hurry up Tor. Just as I reach the front door I wake up, heart pounding.
Dad has brought me to an incredible restaurant where the innovative chef is also the architect. I am appalled when the fish served up is still breathing. The chef shrugs it off - the food here is so fresh it is often eaten at the point of transition from life to death.Outside I notice the scenery has shifted, we are no longer looking out over eighteenth century town houses but at a long shiny black road. I realise it is the restaurant itself that is rotating. The effect is magical and unexpected - constructed like a modernist medieval banqueting hall, the building is in fact one huge cylinder. I feel intensely alive here.
June has made Valentine's Heart Cookies from an ancient pagan mould sheathed in velvet. She turns to us and sobs, "I would hate it if David Bowie died." I agree and tell her I would be upset too and then remember of course that June was The Original Angie Bowie. I put the cookies into the oven which doubles up as the curtain pelmet. I wake with Bowie's "Changes" playing in my head.
I am having doubts about the purpose of this dream diary. Maybe I can learn something from the efficient layout of David Cameron's daily photo diary. I look more closely - there is something vital missing - I can't quite put my finger on it.
Following much controversy a new bridge has been built over the Thames. The protesters have been won over because it is such a beautiful structure. As it opens up I swim down river for about half a mile passing under a low Victorian bridge. The water is brown and opaque but I have no sense of feeling cold. I pull over to the bank near Wapping where Sal is about to go in.
Looking down from a craggy harbour wall I can see a beautiful woman drowning in the water far below. I am too high up to dive in and save her, so I watch helplessly as clouds of blood billow from her gown. Suddenly a young man emerges from the water and drags her to safety. In less than no time he has swum away and plunged back into the sea where he came from.
Christine and I are walking down the corridor in my primary school past Mr Powell's office. I tell her I always like this final stage of a project because you can just sit back and let it fall into place. She looks incredulous, knowing that we are way behind with our work load.
Am I moving into a new flat or a hotel room or studio? I make a phone call and watch the line of animals strolling in through the doorway. Two racoons peer out from the dark hallway. I stroke them gently. The miniature donkeys with fat worms crawling out of their eye sockets get a kick - I don't want them inside.
Some minor celebrities are shut inside the empty Big Brother house. No-one anywhere is watching. The programme makers have forgotten to leave any food for them. Gail Porter stares out into the unmanned camera lens.
In a dark claustrophobic room I am preparing to give a talk on my work. I haven't done so for a few months and my disorganised notes are spread out on the trestle table behind me. A woman in an evening gown introduces me after singing a cheesey cabaret number. I feel nervous and unsure of myself.
Everything is conspiring against my catching a plane for Berlin : 1) My students have given me bulky presents to take with me - that's extra baggage charges when I only intended taking hand luggage. 2) I am already one hour late and can't work out how to get into the airport.3) It takes me ages to find my ticket. Eventually I fish it out of the bottom of my purse - a tiny scrap of newspaper.And 4) I have forgotten Thomas' telephone number in Berlin and he has no idea I am coming today. Where will I stay?
I was just trying to walk from one station platform to another but against my will find myself in a small white room which has turned into a lift hurtling upwards. There are no buttons to press here. It feels like the inside of a nuclear missile stopping only at the top floor of a high building, where a terrified young woman clutches my ankles shaking uncontrollably. This lift has something to do with military buildup in preparation for a strike on Iran.
Having been warned by my next door neighbour that the council are out to rip us off, I am suspicious of the two men at my door. They are both dressed in white and are trying to gain access. "We are here to help you," they insist. I stand in their way. Now they are naked with parts of their body transparent plastic - they have apparently nothing to hide. Still I do not think I should trust them.
Seven week old Jack has a plaster cast made from his hand. It reveals a middle finger which is much more pronounced than the others. As we study it the number of digits shifts from five to six to seven.
The boy is beginning to understand his roots. No matter how decently he is treated now, his resentment for the damage wrought on his ancestors has to be avenged. As I peer through a small window in an operating theatre, I see a fantasy sequence playing out in his head. He is older now and feels nothing for his victim, a man who had once cared for him. Trampling on him he breaks all his bones and then forces the body through a mincer.
I conceal myself behind a curved reception desk in a vast modern hall. I am being sought by the man who is hiding from the woman behind the desk. Everybody is looking for someone. I stick my pencil up to signal my whereabouts to the woman. She snatches it, unconcerned about drawing attention to me.
Phil Mitchell hurls his son's plate of processed meats into the sink. His friend (who is apparently a peace activist outside Eastenders) reprimands him and walks out of the room, "Don't touch my clarinet while I'm out." The boy, now about five years older, heads straight for the instrument. It is made of ebony and is a complex hybrid of woodwind, string and horn. Apeing his father's manner, he snatches up the bow aggressively, nearly snapping it in half.
I hear myself saying, "Oh god, don't break it..."
Two intimidating men and I sit around a small table concentrating on a crossword puzzle. The clues are all meaningless to me. They read out one which is something about our troops on foreign territory. How can I begin to answer when I don't understand the question in the first place? Someone suggests "DEFENESTRATE". "It could be that. That's a military term to do with blocking in windows," I say, desperate to show a modicum of intelligence but completely out of my depth.
Later on in the day, after I have woken up out of the dream, the correct answer comes to mind: "OBFUSCATE".
Aurora and I have squatted a massive building with two other young women. We have to fix the flimsy lock on our door. The squat morphs into a DIY shop, with anarchists calling in at all hours and hardly any of them paying for the goods. We plead with them saying we have to pay for this lot in the first place. The man who is now running the shop explains that he lets people take stuff if their situation is really desperate, which increasingly it usually is.
Christine and I have been asked to paint a 2m x 2m x 2m room illustrating the story of a rat and a whale. There are a number of yellow objects I have hung from the clothes hooks and am including in the swirl of yellow paint leading to the giant rat. In her corner Chris is using a roller to print lines of delicate pastel marks.
I am on top of the roof of an immense house sorting out its website. Through the chimneys I can see an idyllic harbour scene - looks like somewhere in the South of France. I'm not supposed to be out here and know I will have to climb back into the building through the small casement window.
I explain to Simon the idea I have for the design for this year's GayShame festival. In the nightclub I want to build a false rotating floor with attached carnival floats that punters can jump into, like a gigantic roundabout. Simon seems interested but is not sure of the practicality of the design.
I am finishing off a mural made by my students on the corner of a corridor. Gradually members of the group join me, painting clumsily over my careful work. I am a bit annoyed to start with, then realise that what they are doing is fine and I shouldn't be such a control freak.
Five candidates are waiting to audition for a fashion show. I know I am too old and my figure isn't right but I am confident I could do a good job. "Just dance around a bit," the judges say to me. My movements are a bit awkward but I've always thought I dance quite well so I persevere. I notice some of the judges are smirking slightly. I decide to try out a few different moves like jumping up and staying in the air that little bit longer before I land. I've got their attention now. I spring upwards and hover about three foot above the ground with my arms outstretched. Yeh - no-one else can do this.
Am I near Paris or somewhere in South America? I was alone but have met up with a group of students in front of a massive spiral structure carved into a mountain. Two young male students don't want to climb up. "Start shouting OW!" the handsomest says to me. I do as he asks and he picks me up in his arms and carries me as if I am injured. This way he avoids going up the hill.It is thrilling to be carried by him but it makes me feel like an old man.
