I am in a hot african country in an office in an old white building. I look down from an upstairs door and sense there is trouble brewing. I lock the front door but hear soldiers in the corridor. I lock my inside metal door with two locks. I am quaking with fear and think about hiding in a large cupboard but conclude that they will always look there and would find me cowering. This wouldn’t be a dignified way to be found.

Then in the next dream I am a GP in a rather squalid practice somewhere in London. I have a camp bed in the practice and am awoken by a butler or similar person to tell me that there is a phone call for me. I go up some stairs. It is 4.30am and a journalist is on the phone asking me about some new machine installed in a local hospital. As he asks this strikes me as commedy and I say that I know nothing about it. I go back down to the surgery. There is smoke-stained flock wall paper, dim lighting and an antique desk, a grumpy receptionist too. And I have to start seeing patients.