I had too much to dream last night.
Here I am, marooned in a motel on a gargantuan business park in remotest Dartford. It feels like the First Preliminary Qualifying Round of the War of the Worlds has just finished. Plucky underdog Earth has been trounced by the much-fancied planet XXor6on-D92. As a particularly fine specimen of earthling, I’ve been warehoused in some inter-galactic, prisoner-of-war holding camp, waiting to be shipped off for re-programming and redeployment to the crimson salt mines of BigDave, a remote moon of XXor6on-D92.
Bleak and soulless, with no company but the distant whine of the M25 snaking its way through the air, high above me, on its way to the marshlands of Essex, on the other side of the Thames estuary, I know that running is my only chance of escape to a better yesterday.
Maybe tomorrow.
