They are among us, and ruling us.
They have huge leathery wings, and look a bit like the chaps in Arthur C Clarke’s Childhood’s End, a book of which I’m very fond. These lords are, however, less benevolent.
We knew they were coming, of course, as we were walking across the horned bridge by the Watershed, and I remarked on how many jets there seemed to be in the sky. We assumed that there was some sort of delay at Heathrow and that they were stacking the planes. But when we got home, we put the news on; all the power was off, but the television was working. And we were informed. And then the milk was delivered.
They don’t allow us to have anything sharp unless we’re supervised. And I’m working in a sort of industrial growing house – like a farm, but under cover, and I’ve lost my dibbery thing. It’s shiny with a red plastic handle – if you find it, could you give it back, because I’m frightened of them.
Very odd dream, really.