Last night I dreamed of a baby sealed in a plastic bag, the sort that has a zipper seal at one end. The baby lay still with eyes closed, almost dead. I took her to the doctor who unzipped the bag and slid her out. She fluttered her eyelids and spoke, in that strange way that babies can speak in dreams. There was an urgency, a resigned urgency, in her voice, if such a contradiction were possible, and she seemed to be telling me to get on with it. I needed to get her some food and drink. I managed to find an abandoned polystyrene cup of green cordial, which I took to her lips but it spilled after her first sip and I went to put it down onto the bench nearby. It slipped from my fingers much the way my oversized coffee cup slipped from my fingers as I sat at the keyboard here the other morning. My coffee then spread like a flooding river across my computer table covering half my key board and half of the book I was reading ‘Into a glass darkly’. I managed to clean up the mess with a bath towel and dishcloths. Later I used the hair dryer to force out the spillage into the body of the keyboard but I could not clean up the book as it once stood. It now has a dark stain down one side and the first three letters on my keyboard are sticking, along with the q and w.