Radio

Last night I dreamt... That I was at the home of one of my best friends. It was an unusual house, built into a hillside and arranged with the bedrooms downstairs and the living space upstairs. A true product of 1970s experimental architecture - at least, about as experimental as it could be in rural Cheshire. We used to talk about how when we grew up we would buy it from his mother, clear-out her old furniture and turn it into a vision of future living, all clean, white lines and minimalist design.

In life the house overlooks a peaceful valley and, more immediately, a small brook. In my dream it was somewhat different. Outside sat an enormous hall that was being built; a vast sarcophagus of a building that stretched out for miles. My friend's house was on a hillside above, so we were looking out on the workers placing black marble tiles on its roof. I think they were Chinese workers.

An American family now lived in the house, and I was discussing with them what they might do to the decoration. But there was something else, from earlier in the dream that I can't quite recall - to do with my friend and I and the kids of the American family - killing someone. At that point the police arrived at the house, and everyone quietly slipped away.

And there, in the back of the house, I found my old childhood cat, Radio, sitting in a washing basket and licking her leg, just like she used to. Radio's been dead for six years, but she was so vivid, so real, in my mind. I picked her up and held her, spoke to her, stroked her. She was as solid and fiery as in life. Then, just as in life, she twisted and jumped down and ran off, and I ran after, calling her back. She became a dark blur, running back and forth. And I called her again.

Then I woke, and cried.