Never, ever... ever... ever land.

Last night there was a small group of around two boys and two girls, or something to that effect. We were out walking, and I scarecely remember a forest path, a nude brown carpet of leaves and a tiny sensation of mist. One of the boys had his hand in mine, for reasons I cannot find, and for a while I am bathing in the simple lull of contentment. I find that our next stop is London. A stereotypical long-gone London of cobbled streets and prominent building brick work. I see a sign. It has his name on it. It is much like a wooden fence post subtly pointing the way to this man's workshop or house or some kind of business. I am overcome with excitement and I encourage my entourage to follow me as I run in the direction of the building the sign pointed to, located around a short, sharp corner. As I enter, I feel the sensations of a modern room made almost entirely of white. There is a deep black table, about 4 inches thick if you were to think of it in terms of a bunker. It reaches to about two metres long and one metre wide, and is the first thing I see as I walk in. There is a small gathering of people standing around the tall table and as I visually browse them I catch sight of the man himself, and little electrodes of excitement begin to pulse through me. I rotate myself around the table, all the while having my eyes remain on him. As I begin to exchange angles, I see more of him. More of his black hair, drooped down the top half of his face. More of his large button nose. More of his pouted lips and finally his almond eyes. I think I can faintly hear him talking. I remember being in disbelief that he was the man detailed in the sign at all. There were subtle little doubts in my mind, such as he wasn't exactly how I imagined in real life, and he looked strange and unordinary.

I eventually turn away to browse the shop in all it's heavenly shade, but am quick to turn straight back. My group is becoming bored and restless but I insist that we must stay. I discover that he is taking part in a theatre play and before I have barely found the breath to speak we are being situated at what might have been the same black table, and are gazing upon a high, jet black stage, devised, cleverly, to look like a large TV in-built into the white walls. He proudly takes his place at an uncomfortable closeness in front of me, and chants, or sings, a short, quirky song whilst making jerky movements across the front of the stage, but not actually on it. In the heat of the madness, he grabs a man at centre stage and proceeds to give him a large, sloppy kiss, all in part of the production.

As the end of this mysterious facade ends, I find ourselves heading for the exit and back out into an alley of cobbled ground and rural surrounds. I turn back to glance at the entrance to this wondrous place I have just been in and, situated on the wall angled with the black front door, is a very large poster pinned to the bricks on the building, plastered on top of a clean white background, is a picture of this man in Adam Ant's most prominent "Prince Charming" get up. I am, once again, shocked by small electrodes of excitement for the second time.

Failing to recall if anything happened between then and now, the next part consists of myself going back into the theatre room I had just been in, and having words with the management. Again, as I enter, the man is standing around the table, just as is another man who I presume to be his manager or boss. Another lady too, a roadie or designer of some sort. They are discussing how badly the play went, and I am listening contently. I eventually feel confident enough to voice my own opinion. I look him in the eye and I describe reasons why I thought the play was particularly good. I was very descriptive, articulate, and quite proud of my efforts to change their mind. His manager once laughed at me for thinking the play was anything other than a total flop, but the man himself I could tell, was acknowledging my opinion and seemed to be bathing in a wave of flattery. I think that may have secretly been my main intention.

Moments later I am invited to take a seat this time, around the trademark shiny, black table. Actually, more like a bright white modern sofa, box-shaped, white and with neat, square black cushions dotted along the length and breadth. It was a corner sofa, and he sat around the diagonally opposite side. Again, my memory fails to provide me with enough information to detail what happened whilst we were sitting down, but I will try my hardest to be truthful. Starburst. There was a packet of Starburst sitting beside me. As I engulfed their infinite sourness, the lady next to me snacked on a simple grapefruit. One thing I do know is that me and that man bonded like a house on fire. My train of thought was simply: "It's him. It's really him and we're talking like best friends, and he's laughing at my jokes."

He did laugh. I seemed to be on a roll. He definetaly appreciated my approval of his play and in thanks he was dedicating time to talk and negotiate with me. I was thinking at twice the speed of an average person. I was planning what we could do when I got home, if I could phone him up every day, or we could arrange to meet and see shows in the theatre, or we could simply take a long, isolated walk through a misty forest.

At that moment, none other but Jon Fratelli (see previous entry) came through the door. He greeted the man in a playful, laddish manner, and I can recall interrupting with a cheeky, yet playful comment. As he was turning to leave, he turned back around and responded to my playful comment with a jibe of his own. Again, playful. While I exchanged words, he apparently decided to sit down and make a day of it. I was looking into his large, brown eyes and curly-topped head, and he looked very animated and alive, and bursting with conversation. We seemed to banter for what seemed like ages. I was most certainly in a wave of both instant excitement, and in awe of what I might take home.

Until I awoke in my bed. Awoke, meaning became conscious but kept my eyes shut tight. It wasn't long before the dread knocked me back. I daren't open my eyes, yet I had not enough faith to keep them closed and try and resurrect the dream. My jaw was swollen to the size of a small tumour which had now almost spread to my neck. I decided to do nothing but simply lay. Lay and attempt to come to terms with the fact that said man has not... has never... And won't ever have a friendship or knowledge of my presence, for long as we both shall live.