I was staying the night at my parents' house. In morning, I was going to take a taxi. My aunty patty was also going to my work at 6:30, so I was going to share a cab with her. I leave the house, early. It's dark out. I'll come back. I end up at Kits High, visiting. I stop by the music room. My friend Jenny is there. She must be in grade 12, I figure. We go to an assembly; it's Boris Yeltsin's funeral. Boris Yeltsin himself is presiding, walking around, greeting people and thanking them for their kind thoughts at his death. He asks us if we would grace his funeral with a song. Mr. Burger, conveniently piss drunk and thus ready for conducting, exhorts us to pull out Concerto for Four, in F, a hymn-sounding song. I, not in my high school choir, wing it, sightreading. I'm pleased - I'm a much better singer than I was when I was in the choir in grade 8 and 9. Lise, who is also somehow in the choir here (she is actually in the chalice choir at church) turns to me and says that no wonder I ditched this choir for chalice - he's crazy! Boris Yeltsin looks pleased, and, with a tear in his eye, lies down in the casket and falls asleep, presumably for good. I am about to ask Mr. Burger if I can be a ringer in the choir - what with getting out of work early, I could make the 3:30 practices. I don't; I suddenly remember that I was supposed to be at work. It is now 9:05 - oh god! I'm so late. I feel terrible. Redfaced as I arrive at work, I realize I the choir wouldn't have been so great anyhow - my friend Jenny is so not in grade 12 - she must be in third year by now. Aunty Patty is not at work, but some nice fuzzy slippers are. "These must be Ben's", I think for some reason. Sure enough, Joe (his brother and my boyfriend) calls me up. "Did we leave some slippers there last night? Ben can't get to work now." "Yes, yes, I'll put them in the mail." The stamps (it takes a number of them) are a commemorative series celebrating dead russian and soviet leaders. Yeltsin is there; the paint is still shiny on his stamp. Gorbachev is there. he's been dead for years now, I discover to my great surprise. Khrushchev looks like Stalin without his mustache; I suspect a conspiracy. As I fiddle with the postage meter (I didn't have enough stamps in the end), I hear a whispered "PSST!" from the ceiling. I look up just as one of the panels is removed. Joe pops his head out. "Those stamps won't work! They're bugged. Here, I'll take the slippers." "Okay. Have a good day at school! Don't catch a cold in the tunnels on the way out!"

I wake up with the name Vladistokya on my lips and a nervous panic as I check the clock. 5:25, not 9:05. hmm, maybe I was thinking of Vladivostok. That sounds like an interesting place to visit. Except for the rampant crime and drugs.