I return to the sickening pink beach house at the end of the road.
Downstairs the basement is packed with crates and boxes, waiting to be opened or packed away.
I hear the call of a bird that somehow found its way into the house.
Following its desperate caws, I eventually find the source in the arms of my mother.
It's a seagull, and a sick one at that; it keeps flapping its brown-speckled wings and drunkenly swaying on its feet.
Gingerly I cradle the bird, hoping it doesn't vomit on me, but at the same time knowing it will because it's a dream.
Its head flops about awkwardly on its rubbery, sock-like neck, and finally it heaves a disgusting wad of spit and stomach acid onto the floor.
"Thanks for that," I think as the pink beach house fades into my room again, and it's morning.
