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Thirty Seven

The dream below combines a brief mention of the Mostyn Gallery, a recollection of seeing Peter Sallis, and my brief annoyance at a four star hotel for having no locks on their toilet doors, though a man didn't walk in. It is another Asda dream. This depresses me a little as I left there nearly two years ago;

'I am shopping with a small old man, who may or may not be Peter Sallis. He roams aimlessly pointing things out, like the fact some of the crisps are called Jorges Borges – which I remark is pretty classy for a supermarket . Zoe is also there, looking for baking stuff which they don't have. A faint hint of some mad woman at the old style deli. There is a closed art show in the space where George once was. In the toilets, a man walks in on me as I finish taking a shit. I grab him by the neck and throw him in to a mirror, breaking it. "Have a bit more fucking courtesy," I yell at him. He looks at me, blood dripping from a cut above his eye, and says "Try locking the fucking door."'

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