You would not call it flying, this movement in my dream, more like gliding.  I hover above the ground and through mere willpower make my way down a hill.  It keeps me safe from a couple of dogs on the footpath who are snapping and snarling at one another.

Before I know it, I am at the bottom of the hill and seated on board a truck like tram that makes its way along Riversdale Road.  I can see ahead towards the tall buildings on the city skyline.  The length of road in front of us has been pulled up and is carved open, piles of dirt and gravel everywhere.

It is for this reason, road works, that we travel in this huge conveyer type truck.  It stops from time to time to collect passengers along the way.  I try to keep a look out for my house but the whole street scape has changed.  Nothing looks familiar.  Most of the buildings are under construction.  I cannot see my neighbours’ houses anywhere, nor mine.

At a point where I imagine my own house must once have been I insist on getting off the truck, insist because the driver has made it clear he only stops to collect passengers.  He does not stop to let us off.

I’m furious and given that the driver will not stop, I jump off.
‘Follow that woman,’ I hear the driver say to his assistant.  ‘And book her.’  I refuse to be intimidated.  I am so desperate to get back home.  I have work to do for which I am already late.

The man hovers behind me but he is timid, like a shy puppy.
‘Mrs Andersen,’ he says.  He does not even know my name.

I shrug him off when the alarm goes off.