I am staying in a provincial English town, in a modern hotel that sits atop a hill. There are two ways up to the top of the hill: one is via a winding street, whereas the other is through a pitch-dark, covered staircase that starts in the railway station. The staircase appears to be (in the dream) something that I am afraid of: I can remember falling down it, and severely injuring myself. One day, after charity-shopping in the town and subsequently returning to the hotel, I decide to brave the staircase. As I walk down, in darkness, I can feel that some of the steps are rotten, and about to give way. When I get to the place at which I fell, I remark that the stairs have been replaced with more-substantial concrete. I emerge onto a busy railway platform. I then walk back up the street to the hotel, which - as well as being hill-top - also sits on a harbour. This topographic impossibility grants the possibility of there being a naval funeral being held, to which I am invited, but about which I have not been told. I attend in my casual clothes, before walking into an empty car showroom.