Dream - 4.30 am: It is a rickety old service elevator – not much room with the kids, me and the late middle-aged man. There is a light in there similar to a Glasgow winter afternoon, a sepia orange at the edges, clear and bright blue round the edges. As it ascends the man chats softly and easily with us, the wooden slats give way to a smoother more industrial finish. There is a floor at the top, not unlike an airport walkway from one terminal to another. The light is bluish white, crisp, cold. The man waves and moves into the terminal. The door closes and the light starts to fade through brown and grey until there is no light at all as the elevator moves left and down at speed. By trying to calm my children I prevent myself from screaming out. I am terrified but not surprised.
There is a newsroom – bright fluorescent lights – in the middle of the room there are some hand weights shaped like bowling balls that I have to lift and move. There are three people with me. You are the only person that I know. I crouch down to lift one of the bowling balls realise that I cannot do it – I am wearing red socks that are an odd length and I am embarrassed and ashamed. You hunker down in front of me, hold my face in your hands and kiss the corner of my mouth gently. It will be okay, you say. No one is looking at you, it will all be okay.
