I’m in some kind of Dads Army regiment. Charles Hawtrey is with me. His glasses break, and new ones fold out onto his face automatically. A line of our troops join us through a hedge, facing down the troops of darkness in the forests behind a low fence.
We advance on some entrenched gun positions. I drop down into a gun emplacement. The gravity is low, and I float down slowly, about 20-30ft. The gun is manned by women. All foreign. They are with us. I use a viewer, like the science station scanner Spock uses in Star Trek. It’s a targeting device. In the low gravity I have trouble steadying myself to see through it. Eventually, I’m able to target and fire. I’m not sure if, in reality, the whole process is automated.
I look up from the rangefinder. I’m in a tank, on the back of a flatbed truck, racing against a similar vehicle as we speed through the night along a motorway. We joke about God bless the Queen, and her wonderful army. I’ve no idea where we are going.
I’m in a spacesuit. I cling to a large, rectangular satellite. We orbit the Earth. We start in low Earth orbit, and that rapidly drops to a few hundred feet from the ground below us. I try to repair the satellite. People on the surface fire missiles at me, trying to destroy the satellite.
I’m back on the ground, in a waiting room. On my iPhone I watch my friend Steve Harris take part in a reality music TV show. I know he’s going to win. I vote for him anyway.
I leave the room. I’m in a shopping centre. Work colleagues pose for photographs with trainers.
I am inside a garage. I’ve been taken here by a contact. We meet a mechanic, a dangerous man. I’m aware the last person we sent vanished. The mechanic leads us through a back room, where a young woman joins us, into a large elevator, which has the exact dimensions of the low orbit satellite I was repairing earlier.
I tell them about the satellite, the high winds. Here, it was a dream. They all look at me, as if I’m very unprofessional. We exit onto a windy, snowy landscape. The young woman points out a large rock that she thinks may be useful. I pick it up and carry it.
After a while, the rock gets heavy. She asks why I’m carrying it when I complain. I put it down. I’d made an incorrect assumption, in my attempt to appear helpful. I joke with her about how, if she wants help, she can go elsewhere next time. We both laugh. We cross a flooded road, and enter a forest, to do battle with the army of a robot Charles Hawtrey.