Where I Go in My Dreams (Pt 10)

In which The Author experiences the joys of Co-codamol (again)

Last night, Jeff from Dillons and I were trying to get to work in Cardiff on a train. We had to disembark prematurely, where we were diverted into a very tall ultra-modern building and through a set of double doors. There was a turnstile at the end of a long corridor, which allowed a set number of people onto a waiting tram/train.
Jeff and I were lucky to make it through the turnstile together and boarded, not sure where we were going. The tram/train shot along at ground level, passing between similar very tall buildings. I remember pointing one of them out to him, and telling him that it was the Iranian Embassy.
When we arrived at the terminus, we were separated in the press of people. I lost my way and had to walk along a narrow path alongside a sluggish river. There was a man sitting hunched over at the side of the path. I wasn’t sure whether he was dead or alive. The path was unlit, but in the distance I could make out silhouettes of other people walking in the same direction.
I decided to turn back and made my way to the terminus again. A young man asked me for my ticket, and I told him I didn’t have one. He persuaded me to sign up for a week’s free trial of a smartphone instead, as that would compensate for my failure to buy a ticket.
I was trying to work out how to work my new gadget when I realised that I was walking through a very run-down town. There was hardly anyone around. I wondered whether there was any credit on the phone to phone work and tell that I was running very late. My clothes were covered in mud from walking along the riverbank. I spotted a sign for a railway station and headed for the platform. According to the dream (I’ve never been there), I was at Sittingbourne station, on the down platform. There didn’t seem to be any way of heading back into London.
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