The Fertile Sewage of Dreams

I’m teaching rugby to school kids. It’s a very small group, mixed ages, genders, and abilities. Sport is no longer compulsory. I feel uncomfortable in the changing rooms, even though I’m alone. 
A friend asks me for another friends phone number. He wants a cheap haircut. I can’t find the number. He’s very insistent. I fob him off. I walk along the edge of a flooded field. It’s flooded with black sewage. Another friend carries a fishing rod and a gun. We talk, and he walks into the water, disappearing beneath the dark surface. I talk to Tom. A friendly hippo comes to the surface. It follows us as we walk along the field. 
The water has receded at this end of the field. Black silt is raked into strict lines. This will be fertile land once more. The field becomes a slope, up to a stage in a theatre. The theatre and stage are full of stones, still wet and stained brown by sewage. I climb a wall, trying to clear a narrow chimney of the brown stones blocking it. I realise the exit is too narrow. I will never fit. 
I’m cycling around the block on a tricycle. The road bends in unexpected ways. It is night. Yellow sodium light disperses through a pre-dawn Mancunian mist. I go round and around. As the sky lightens, I cycle home. 


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