Read: Fleeting Moments...

We crunch and snap our way through the woods, already carpeted with red and orange leaves. Crusty acorn cups and shiny brown conkers are littering the ground, and tree branches are starting to look thin and bare.

Back in the early 1980s, and for only a short while, I was fortunate to be living in two places at the same time.

We sit, bathed in the August evening sunshine, on shallow concrete steps that lead down into a sparkling sea.

For a while, we try and put the state of the world and the ever-present, anxiety-fuelling background noise to our digital lives on the back burner.

The air is damp, thick with the smell of rotting leaves and bark. The dog is focused on the mulchy, soft ground, sniffing intently as she moves erratically

It’s 3AM; a dishevelled group of punks, hippies, bikers and Hells Angels are gathered in a Wiltshire field. We stand before an empty pyramid-shaped stage and wait for the main musical event. It’s 1984 and we are at the Stonehenge Festival.

I find myself inside a vast, cavernous, brightly lit warehouse, I am standing on-top of a large wooden box. The box I stand on is stacked upon other boxes.

I would assume that I am not alone having dreams relating to the 2020 pandemic. This is the second Covid-19 dream I have had this year, it goes something like this ...