I am sitting at an airport departure gate with my parents and a friend of the family. It is dark outside. I look out of a window, and see a massive aeroplane. To my surprise, it also has rotors and it is floating in a stormy sea. A TV crew come up to the gate to talk to us. They give us a send-off, and we all jump out of the end of the airport concourse, down about two metres, into sunshine and my front garden.
The friend of the family and I get into the familial car, which actually belongs to my uncle. We drive off, seemingly for the airport. Someone else joins us in the car. [Being totally convinced that this is real,] I ask them whether they believe that four people in the exact same situation could have the same dream at once. They disagree.
We drive down onto Clarkston Road, and drop the interloper off at the carpet showroom opposite the Couper Institute. We then drive back along the road, heading for the house.
Up ahead, it seems that hundreds of people, variously wearing identical orange, white or fluorescent green t-shirts, are congregating at the traffic lights. They are having a massive water fight, perhaps for charity, perhaps for fun. Through the slightly open window, somebody fires a water pistol. Through the back window, someone else passes me water balloons the size of melons. He tells me that one of them is live. I try to eject the balloons through the other window, but have only two hands.
I am in the car with my Dad. We are listening to Radio 2, and Terry Wogan's breakfast show. Peculiarly, he is reading out a dream that I have sent to him. As I hear this, I have a diary in which I have written that I dreamt that Terry Wogan reads out one of my dreams on the radio.