Night of 22nd May 2010

The setting is similar to the back-end of the family house I grew up in. However the garage is an outhouse where I, and a few other siblings, are living. My parents are in the main house, which while not explicitly identical still looks as though it's the back-end (the back door) of my family home. Family members move between the two dwellings, but I seem to stay in the outhouse.

There is somekind of tension in the air, and all members of the family are out of sorts. We all seem to be very lazy, or not our usual selves. I think my Mum has gone out on a walk—no one knows where. My Dad is also unresponsive or absent.

There's a phone call for me at the main house which my youngest sister, Melody, takes. She says she'll put it through the outhouse where I, and someone else, are laying down; but she mucks up the transfer and the call is lost. I'm very angry—it was an important call, and she fucked it up.

Back in Tokyo, I presume, I'm in favour with my old company again, and my Boss is putting me back on some work. I see him working with the chief graphic designer, Mincho, on some figures—some kind of economic calculation. He shooes me in and wants me to take this job.

It looks extremely simple: a division with a multiplying factor, then an answer. It's probably some kind of lot calculation; how many garments for how much, and how that changes with order size. When passively looking at it, it seems so simple and almost beneath me (I'm a trained Chemical Engineer); but Mincho hands the calcs off to me, and I can't do them—I need more information than is given, and more explanation of what figure is what.

I walk past Doi and Jun, two street-wear sellers known to me in waking life in Tokyo. They are scruffy and dressed like teenagers (as in real life) and walk past me on the right. As we pass they don't acknowledge, or notice, me—they thought I'd left Tokyo for good, after all. I look back as we pass, and sensing me doing this, one of them, perhaps Doi, does a double take—but still doesn't recognise me. I continue to look, they do another double take. Nothing is said, but I think they realize who I am—we both continue walking, nothing is said.

I see the feminine figure, in tight leggings, ahead of me. As I get closer I see it's a man. As I get very close I see it's a fair haired man with 70s style sideburns and facial hair. I know him (only in the dream) and go toward. I approach very friendlily—smiling, and touching him when we meet.

He's irked at me—it's been a long time since I saw him; and he says I owe him money. What for? For the drugs (he uses some kind of slang, unfamiliar to me at first, but soon remembered; I think the drug he refers to is administered by needle)—he got me and him a shot some time ago.

I'm now irked: after all this time, and he greets me in this way—and I seem to be somekind of patron of his too. He instantly asks for the money owed, and is still acting angry at me. He thinks he should get a large sum; and at this point, I unleash some of my anger out at him. I remind him that I did pay my half for that score way back, and continue: "Maybe of you'd asked for 5 pounds, a tenner—yes, then maybe. I have no money now at all, but nevermind that, give me 1000 quid, oh yes" etc., I try to shame him.

It seems to work a little. He softens his stance, we are still touching and I feel the heat of his leg against mine. We begin to walk together, continuing the conversation. I wake.

Night of 23rd April 2010

In the meeting room I find myself on the same side as my ex-boss. There is the same animosity between us, and I am trying to tread carefully. It comes up that I'm moving on, and I nervously wait for his reaction.

He says to me "so Man City eh" (as opposed to Man Utd., which is presumably how I saw where I was). And I have to correct him—it's not the same city, or a nearby place, I'm going to, I'm going very far away. This seems to stun him a little. He pats me on the back, in a hollow way.

On the bus there is a loudmouthed black-person. He has a Japanese girlfriend/partner (like me) and brashly speaks in Japanese mixed with English. I find his attention seeking, show-offery annoying and wish him nothing but ill. But, wouldn't you know it, he's drawn to me and keeps making conversation. I'm sat with my friend, and he joins us. He's impressive—tall, trim, he looks just like Hugo Rodallega of Wigan Athletic.

We're going to the same hotel, and by a twist of fate, end up in the same room. I learn that he's an athlete, here for a meet—and secretly wish he fails spectacularly, whilst cowardly offering passive encouragement and support.

I see him, the next morning, strewn on the bed in a yellow Bruce Lee jumpsuit; covered in sweat (like the Beast), or water, and looking sick. I'm part happy, part concerned.

Outside we, my friend and I, see the track. It's a grass running track, like those at school, and I'm astonished at how long a sprinting straight is—I run occasionally in waking life, and know I'd never make it to the end at full tilt; and even at a modest canter would be exhausted by the finish line. This length, coupled with the black's bad state, convinces me he has no chance whatsoever.

The race is on, though they seem to be running a 400m, coming round the bend on the opposite side of the track to us, and sure enough he's falling behind. Resigned, I think "I knew it." But at this point he begins pulling forward, surging with some strength; I'm stunned as to where this power has come from. He continues to pull forward, looking ever more comfortable and hubristically sure of his victory. So sure, he pulls out a bottle of water while still mid-race and drinks then totes it in the air. A winning pose while the race is still being run. It's a photo-finish, yet paradoxically he is the clear winner.

I congratulate him. Not fully won over - I'm still jealous that his brash, loud, manner was shown to be better - but impressed none the less. I wake.