It began with a scene in a
lodging house, somewhere in South London, where I had a room, typical student
accommodation. I remember that I had just written an analysis of tropical
storms in Asia, full of graphs and tables, and was vainly attempting to show it
to a colleague (who was unimpressed).
A youth whom I knew from
many, many years ago at school, someone who was in the same year class but to
whom I was not particularly close, appeared at my elbow. I recognised him
immediately as he had not aged. He suggested we go to the pub for a drink.
I vividly remember the
route to the pub. From the apartment house we crossed a busy road, using an
underground pass. We emerged from the pass and entered a huge complex of
offices, pubs and restaurants. Taking two separate escalators, we went up
several levels before we entered the pub.
I recall little about the
pub, what we drank or what we talked about. I do remember deciding to leave –
and discovering that my wallet and credit cards had been stolen, my friend had
also vanished and the pub was now deserted. Cue unease and the beginnings of
panic.
As I headed for the
entrance to the building complex, there was another frightening discovery; the
escalators had disappeared and been replaced with a mountainside covered with
large boulders and scree. So I was forced to scramble down, dislodging heavy
boulders all the way, but made it safely to the bottom.
It was quite dark now and I
remember rationalising that, in order to return to my lodging, all I needed to
do was to walk all the way around the huge complex of offices and restaurants
until I reached the underpass, then I could cross under the busy road and
return home.
Some hope!
Turning right, I shortly
passed a church on my right hand side, looking rather like the St
Martin-in-the-Fields Church that is in Trafalgar Square, London. Outside it,
many people were lying on the cold pavement, covered with blankets and coats,
trying to sleep. Intuition told me that they were immigrants and I heard a
voice intone something about my ‘mission.’
Immediately after, another
scene appeared, also to my right. This time it was a Roman cemetery. There were
lots of gravestones and funeral statuary – in the form of Roman soldiers in
uniform, but none of the statues were intact; many were headless, were missing
limbs or other parts of the body. They certainly looked ancient, covered with
mud, creepers, dust and slime - all rather B-film.
At this point I hitched a
lift, jumping into the back of a passing dumper lorry. Already standing in the back
was an ancient navvy figure who grunted a welcome. As we sped along I realised
that we were leaving the office complex and I asked the navvy to let me off. He
repeated my request to the driver who lowered the height of the truck and I was
able to step off easily.
Fortunately, this was
opposite the underground pass and I was soon back in my lodgings.
Rationalising the
experience, the vast majority of it comes from my subconscious. I’ve lived in
student lodgings for several years, including in South London. I’ve experienced
many typhoons over the years in Hong Kong - and have begun to work with
the homeless during the last couple of winters. Even the Roman soldiers can be explained by an
addiction to watching the ‘Time Team’
archaeology TV series. But I’ve never hitched a ride on a dumper lorry
- although I worked briefly as a builder’s labourer during one college
vacation.
Isn't life strange?
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