I am with a bull, in a wooden crate, inside a cold bus stop. He is made of garlic cheese, and has no visible eyes. He talks to me. I taste some of his skin. He is worried about going off. I tell him that he will be ok until tomorrow, when the sun rises and he will melt away. He is trying to break out of his crate. I make my excuses and leave.
I am at home. It is also work. Strange small pink items of furniture are everywhere. There is mud on the carpet.
A lidless jar of mayonnaise is under the bed, rotting.
Work are having a refit. The room is full of tasteless items decorated with knives and forks.
In a shop next door, they sell balalaikas alongside sweets and magazines.