I'm chasing some criminal in a Hong Kong police action film, although it seems to be set in Prague. No matter - there's a bad guy to catch. We race through the market place, my partner hot on my heels. People scatter as they see our drawn guns.

In the town square, there's a large market, covered with white cloth. All that is sold here are endless rows of white silk dresses. I holster my pistol, and creep amongst them.

But now I'm gliding along, my face brushed by the soft silks, my feet are not on the floor, and I slowly float amongst the clothing, joyful. After a few laps in the air, determined, I leave the market. There's a lot of people here, and the clothes sell well. I am in my best suit, and I march up the hill to the sandstone buildings that are used as offices. There's a small bunch of like minded customers - hard nosed businessmen who know that such quality clothes will sell very well back in the UK. The door opens, and the old woman who runs this whole affair welcomes us in. I hesitate, though. Who knows what the quality of these garments really is like? They might fob us off with low-quality merchandise. I retreat and slip away, leaving the suckers to have their money stolen.

Further up the hill is the hotel. A fine, five star building, with a large foyer. I await the lift, sitting on a metal chair. It arrives with a ping and in I step.

The apartment suite has been abandoned, although Tony Blair and his family have left a complete mess behind, presumably staying here as part of their election campaign. It looks like it's up to me to clean it up. A TV with a static hiss is in the corridor, and I turn it off, surveying the rooms. It's going to take quite a while to get the ice cream off the walls. What on earth was Blair doing?

I sigh, and sit on the floor. In the chair next to me is my friend. I look at him, as I colour in a few pictures. I notice subliminally that he's actually Sigmund Freud, and he's giving a very nervous speech about some aspect of neuropsychology I can barely understand. He sweats and twitches, as I ignore him.

"Holy crap!" I realise it's Freud in the chair, and I sit and desperately try to concentrate, putting aside the colouring book. I try not to think about the fact I believe Carl Jung is far more interesting.

Disconcertingly, his moustache keeps shrinking, and looks more and more like Heinrich Himmler by the minute, but he's still nervously lecturing...

I have no idea what any of that was about...

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