I dreamed of a man on a tram who had been involved in a vicious attack that had left him cut and bruised.  Somehow I took him from the tram and into my car in a bid to get him to the police station where he might get help.

I can see him now cowed and bleeding, his dark suit torn.  He was slumped in the back seat of my car, which I managed to parked in the front of the police station in Bridge Road in Richmond.

Then later I dreamed of helping a friend, T, get to the airport.  On the way to the airport she needed to borrow my car, which morphed into a three-seater bike with room on the back for passengers.  T sat in the back with her young daughter, but their weight was excessive and caused the tyres to flatten.  In only a few minutes they needed to get off the bike and walk.

I offered to take them to the airport thinking we had hours to spare. As it turned out they told me had left their run very late.  For an international flight it is best to arrive at the airport at least two hours before the plane’s departure, but they now had only two hours left and still needed to get to their own home from my house to pack.  I did not tell them they would not make it before they pulled away from the curb.

I noticed then on the main road in front of my house two of our cats squabbling over a lump of meat they had found on the edge of the road.  I worried that a car might hit one of them and sure enough it did.

Our cat Mollie’s leg seemed to have been broken presumably after being hit  and I went onto the road to lift her ever so gently and take her inside.  She whimpered in my arms as I held her as carefully as I could so as not to dislodge the bone further.

It was almost impossible to get across the veranda of my house and into the living area where I had planned to telephone for the vet.  Some one had removed several boards from the veranda and it was elevated higher than it is in real life.  I could not get over this obstacle course with a wounded cat in my arms.  Still I tried.