A council housing block. It is run down. Part of it is being privatised. Some workmates are there. We have to fix things, but we don’t have the right tools. We have to improvise.
I miss the lift and take the stairs. Men in suits are in my way. Outside is a street market. I pick up a book called “The Depressed Monkey”, depressed monkey, my arse, I think. I go to visit my boss. He’s in a health kick. He makes tea while I tell him about my dream, and The Depressed Monkey book. He’s not really listening. His kids are Colombian militia and are shooting the house up around us as they argue. I lie on the sofa with a pistol in my mouth. Surprisingly, it is a babies bottle, designed to look like a pistol.
I borrow money I don’t need and a long coat that I do, and go outside. I am in Teignmouth. There are a lot of large houses converted from old mosques. A college has just finished for the day, I try to avoid the students. Two if them are singing great harmonies. I ask if that’s their own song, and compliment them on it. I want to sing them the song if The Depressed Monkey, but decide against it.
The Colombian militia have a meeting. Only two women turn up. They have been on tv lying about being lesbian twins. This is too revolutionary for the militia, so they have met elsewhere.
I walk a muddy path past sleeping cats and boarded up houses. At a main road, I sit on a stool with wheels and whizz uphill, losing control at a roundabout at the top of the hill. Depressed Monkey, my arse, I think.