My wife - in this part of the dream I'm married - will not be pleased with my visitor not because he is a writer but because he is a communist. He looks like Peter Bogdanovich. There's a flea on the carpet. I catch it, but don't squash it, throw it out an upstairs window. I go out the window, thinking it will be easy to climb down to the ground that way. Part of the wooden edge of the roof comes away in my hand. Some other pieces of wood from the roof crumble, as they always do in dreams like this. I can't get back in through the window. It's a long way to fall. Conversation with a dear woman friend - I'm not married - in which I'm hamming it up pretending to be annoyed, saying I'm doing it because we never have quarrelled and I want to see how we we'd manage a serious difference. But that doesn't work, we laugh about it. Then she's standing there dressed like Audrey Hepburn in last scene of 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', maybe it is Audrey Hepburn. She's saying there is a difficulty about our relationship, that I want children. I know she doesn't and I'm saying that I don't.