Nighttime. A main road. I’m singing with the Four Seasons. We hold hands and levitate.
This transforms into a 3d flying musical drama exercise with students involving gathering into layered groups, those at the back attempting to put off those at the front with ironic mistimed finger clicks, forgotten words and bad singing.
I’m at college, in a shopping centre. Everyone’s wearing black. Piles of clothes are on the floor. I can’t find any thing that fits me. I pick up an enormous leather jacket, the buttons are silver steel death’s heads. I try to put it on, it’s so big the best I can do is an elephant impression in the style of Playschool’s Derek Griffiths.
On a down escalator, I make a radical suggestion. We should wear a different colour each, like Captain Scarlet‘s organisation, Spectrum.
My boss is in a wheelchair. I help her dock to refill with compressed air. It’s like docking a space station. Everyone from work is going on holiday. I need to find a holiday where I can take my dog, and my games console.
I remember. I don’t have a console anymore.
No consolation anymore.
No one to console me anymore.
No console games anymore.
No consolation prizes.
It’s a winter night. The roads curve away downhill. A grass verge between them. Lights appear on the grass, an ephemeral filigree of light. Showgirls appear, all blue sequinned top hats, tails and tights. They are The December Club.
They sing and dance and serenade me, lead me to fill a huge pair of shoes, I slide downhill through the glowing grass, I sing along as I plummet into unknown darkness.