By the way, this is all one dream:
My family and I are on a Floridian High Street, outside some sort of ironmongers or general store. We have been here before, and we ask the owner, who is Anthony Edwards (ER's Mark Greene), to bring out a periodic table. He brings a huge, laminated copy, which we lay out on a table in the street. We theorise about chemistry, looking up at descriptions of the elements that never were. Much impressed, I ask our shopkeepeer-friend for some connecting materials. He comes out with a roll of orange wire and a roll of green wire. For some reason, we believe that we could use these wires to link together chemical compounds, and create the best plastic, ever. I notice that the shopkeeper has put some leaflets on the table for us. One of them is a guide to California in 1998. This anachronism puzzles me, and I remember that we last visited this shop in 1997. There is also a printed, white-paper bag. The print talks of a poetry competition, run by a confectionery company. Inside the bag, there are two crêpe, with boxes printed upon them.
I enter the shop, where I encounter an old lady with two young children, seemingly playing this competition. Beyond the shop floor, the building is platial, with a bed on a platform, and sunlight streaming in through a skylight. The children seem to have to fill in the boxes on the crêpe with rhyming words. Soon after, one of the girls runs away, as she has become frustrated with the game. I eat one of my crêpe, although it seems bland.
I am then (perhaps telepathically) instructed to ask the old lady how we should drive home, as we now appear to be on a driving holiday in Germany. She directs me towards a box, marked "Eindhoven", where I will find an assortment of road maps. I wonder whether Eindhoven, the name of a city in the Netherlands, could also mean "road directions". Nevertheless, I thank the old lady, having been unable to find the box, and leave. I wonder if my parents are looking for me, in order to leave and go home.
I now find myself in the East Kilbride Shopping Centre, near a Krispy Kreme Donut stall. I go over to the desk, and am promptly given one of said doughnuts. It is as nice as I remember from my holiday in Florida, and I soon want more. The sales-assistant informs me that, to pay for my doughnut, and to receive further dough-payments, I should wipe a table in the café. She hands me a cloth and some table-cleaner, and I look for a vacant table in the packed café. There are, of course, none. When one does become available, a more alert cleaner is upon it, cleaning it to within an inch of its tableness. It turns out that all of the cleaners in the café are on informal agreements, and are paid only for the number of tables that they clean. I soon make the breakthrough, and wipe down two tables. I continue for much of the night, until about eleven o'clock, when the shopping centre is closing. I go to the desk, to collect my payment. I am given two boxes, one containing very thin, onion-ring-like doughnuts, and the other containing doughtnut holes. I enquire as to whether I will be paid any money, and am given thirty-five pence for my troubles.
I walk off with my tray of doughnuts, and find an odd place to sit. The seats are like a three-tier wedding cake, with people sitting on each tier, looking out in all directions. I circumnavigate the seats, in order to find one, and I sit down next to an old man. The man tells me that he has been hit by a car, and has bruised his knee. I offer my condolences, and turn away. My parents appear at this stage, asking me where I went, and having some doughnuts. My dad remarks that the old man is a former bridge partner of his, and he chases the man down, of all places, Bridge Street.