I am walking up to McDonalds from the bus stop for Tesco. It is a clear day and in my arms is my son - he is about six years of age.
I look up and see several military helicopters flying over the town of Ryde about a mile away. The craft are not British as they are adorned with the markings of a foreign power - I speculate that they may be Iranian or Chinese.
For some reason it does not really concern me that the country has surrendered without a fight. "Bloody New Labour, I knew they'd sell us to the highest bidder," I say to my son.
I feel him grab hold of me tight and say, "I love you Dad."
It makes me feel warm inside and my worries dissipate because that's all that really matters to me.
"I love you too, Son, the thing is though it's all a dream because this is the future and you can't be six in the future because in reality you are twenty three now. Dreams are strange: Where do they come from? What are they for? What do they mean?"
"Well, Dad, sometimes dreams aren't dreams, sometimes dreams are true."
It's getting interesting because the sub-consciousness is now communicating through my son, and soon I will know the meaning of life...
An angry and persistent bleeping propels me into the waking world and all I am left with is a half answered question.