My father is impressed with the car, he indicates to me that this is a rarity and begins to explain the hallmark design features of the car. It seems to be a cabriolet, and my father is adjusting the canvas rag-top, telling me that this is the defining feature.
The rag-top is a thick strip down the centre of the roof, and doing/undoing it is an intricate affair with lots of folding and buttoning. It, the canvas rag-top, is a sky blue color with some brand-name in white written down it in a stripe within the stripe. I think it reads "Citroen."
Suitably impressed with the car, I decide to sit inside.
Like a tardis, the inside is huge, like a living room, and its shape does not match the outer facade: it is like an arrow head or chevron—the nose of the car being the point of the chevron. The car is an electric car; now so antique that I'm led to think it doesn't work anymore. Sitting in the armchair-like driver's seat I step on the accelerator pedal knowing nothing will happen. Nothing happens. I continue to step on and off the pedal, and to my surprise, after three or four of such play presses, the car moves.
It is a huge machine and moves very slowly—even so, it is quite alarming as I wasn't prepared for its locomotion and we're in a car-park with other cars parked around. I don't want to crash into anyone's property. Struggling to control the machine, I try my best to steer it away from other cars, while searching for the brake pedal. There is none.
My foot isn't on the pedal, and I'm hoping friction and loss of inertia will slow the car to a stop. It slows a little, and I've managed to exert some steering control over it, I turn to the right and guide its coast to an empty parking space in front of a wall. I now worry whether it will stop in time before sluggishly bumping into the wall. The car is an antique, and more to the point—not yet mine.
It bumps into the wall.
Leaving the vehicle, I see an image of a cracked wing—literally a wing, with a registration code on it as real planes have on the underside of their wing. The wing is yellow, and the reg. is in black—I somehow know it's the right wing. I scuttle away from the car, ashamed; and I sense my father, who was outside, is embarrassed too. I think, Well it was only a thousand pounds, I can buy it if all goes for the worst...
It's a crystal clear night, and I'm given a vibrant view of the stars. I can see them against a deep blue, not black, night sky—it's almost like a film, or heightened reality, version of the sky. I notice a Spaceship cruising against this background!
I can't believe it, and as I wonder if anyone else is seeing this bizarre occurrence, more and more Spaceships casually appear in the night sky. Not racing about, but chugging, commuter-like, across it.
The Spaceships too appear vibrantly, there is no sign of dirt on them and the sides in light are illuminated quite clearly, even the faces of their hull that are in shadow are not completely oblique.
I see many sizes and shape of craft and am beginning to enjoy watching them when the thought that they are searching for something crosses my mind. One of the craft seems to notice me and I watch it change course toward me—speeding up as it does.
I infer that it's me they are searching for, and begin to run. The spaceship follows and we're in a chase. It traps me on a long flight of stairs, like a fire escape, and a passenger jumps from the ship. A hunter perhaps.
It's at this point I realize I am some kind of special individual, possibly a member of their alien race (unbeknownst to me), and they are trying to get me back as I have some kind of special quality foreign to even them.
The chase is not scary—indeed, on intuiting that I was a "chosen one" being sought after was touching. The alien has nearly got me. I wake.
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