Loch Ness Camping

Loch Ness is a place I've always wanted to visit and never been able to, but that hasn't stopped me from going in my dreams on various occasions. I got to visit again last night after stealing a police helicopter with Li and my sister Dana. Unfortunately we were shot down after taking off from the helipad. The shell of the main chopper fell away into the sea, but we remained suspended in a flimsy gyrocopter which managed to skim out of range from the police missiles and cross north into Scotland. We were there within minutes, looking down on bright green swampland, rolling hills, and the sparkling blue water of the loch itself. We saw a lot of fibreglass sculptures of the legendary Nessie, marking the site as a popular tourist destination.

Another of my sisters, Camella, had been camping on the banks of the loch alone for some days as part of a science project, and we intended to touch down nearby and join her. Dana was piloting the chopper, so I directed her to touch down on a cramped green sward close to the campsite. It was a crisp, bright day at the end of winter and the ground was boggy underfoot. There wasn't a whole lot of space on shore for the landing. A hedge ran across a long spit of land cutting across the loch, and it was halfway along this that Camella had set up her campsite. I was wearing expensive work brogues, and I suggested that we return to Essex before disembarking in order to change our footwear. Li told me to stop being ridiculous, and we proceeded on our way, my shoes promptly ruined by the sticky mud. "Forget about it!" Li snapped, "we're here now!"

The geography of the loch was not at all in keeping with its real world terrain, there being some lovely blue mountains rising in the distance and lots of marshland on the edges of the water, with duckweed and water fennel clogging up the ground. As we traipsed single file along the narrow spit, following the hedge, I felt something crawl up my trouser leg and sting me on the shin. I yelped and shook it out, seeing a small, waspish creature buzzing away. "What the fuck was that!" I yelled, rubbing the sore spot. When we joined up with Camella, the sisters immediately started messing around and being immature, so I butted in and complained about the bite. Camella explained that they were called droxies, and that there were swarms of them all over the swampy areas, including a nest next to her campsite. "Keep your trousers tucked into your socks, but they'll probably still sting your face and neck. They're much more threatening than the Loch Ness Monster."

"Does it really exist?" Li asked.

"Nobody knows," I told her, "but keep an eye out for it just in case!" Li looked nervous at that point, so I told her it probably only ate fish, and Irish monks. She didn't understand the reference. After helping Camella gather up her belongings, we returned the way we had walked and repaired to a village inn overlooking a natural bay. My extended family in Nottingham were due to join us there for lunch. In the meantime, I looked out of the restaurant windows at the small fishing village, and the lapping waters of the loch beyond. I spotted some black humps breaking the surface in the distance, swiftly followed by a tall dorsal fin and white patches. It was a pod of killer whales. I beckoned everyone over to look, and fumbled for my digital camera. Unfortunately, the shutter was unresponsive and I missed the shot. "Piece of crap, I only bought it three years ago!" I complained.

The whales swam closer to shore, and one of them even beached itself onto the shingles. It was the perfect opportunity for a photo, but still my camera refused to cooperate. By now a big crowd had arrived for the lunch buffet, and everyone was at the windows pushing for a closer look. There were also penguins waddling out of the waves onto the shore, as though purposely tantalasing me for being unable to take photos. My relatives turned up and I was forced to abandon my failed nature photography in order to exchange the necessary courtesies. Sandwiches were passed round, coffee was brewed, and the penguins and whales swam off. I scratched at my swelling droxy bite and lamented my ruined brogues.

Life in Moscow

A few nights ago I had a dream that I was in Moscow visiting an old friend, completely fictitious, but who nonetheless shared some similarities with an existing person. Initially we were sitting separately in an old man's boozer, which might perhaps be more appropriately likened to a tavern, it being a quasi-period themed dream, as we had failed to recognise one another. I was dressed in the height of Moscow men's fashion; a rather worn waistcoat and dark grey work trousers, with a baggy sleeved, open necked shirt, and sturdy riding boots. The man I had come to see lit up a cigarette and ordered a beer from the bar, at which point I knew him as my comrade and went over to say hello. He was a grizzled, stubble-faced git, with careworn features and a shabby wax jacket. Nonetheless, deep feelings of kinship existed between us, and we embraced one another with affection.

Before uttering a single word, he went back to the bar and ordered an extra pint of what he was drinking for me. We then sat down at his table to drink and reminisce. The rest of the tavern was relatively bare, only a few old men coughing into their vodkas. What we talked about was not important. As the afternoon wore on, more people began to enter the tavern, including two young women in elaborate silk, ruffled dresses. I ignored them and continued my conversation, asking after the health of my friend's ailing mother. He talked about her meagre existence mending straw soled shoes and eating potato soup for dinner, of which it was his job to procure. "We're so poor right now that she can't afford to replace her hairbrush, and it's falling to pieces," he mumbled.

Soon it became clear that our conversation had attracted the attention of the two young ladies, who were tittering on a booth some distance away. I caught one of their eyes, and they both sidled closer to us. (Never give eye contact.) After a while, the one in the green dress leaned over our table and produced a beautifully carved, mint coloured hairbrush, decorated with a fine filigree pattern and delicate alabaster swirls. She put it into my hand, told me it was her late mother's and that we should give it to my comrade's sick mother. She was a hawkish lady, heavily made-up, her hair bundled high on her head with a plume bobbing on top. Her friend in pink had blonde, girlish curls, with demure eyes and rouged cheeks. I thanked them for the gift of the hairbrush, after making the necessary polite objections.

Little by little, they encroached onto our table until we were all drinking and joking together. Something in their forward manner made me realise that they were prostitutes, or in the vernacular of the time, wenches, probably of a lowly station trying very hard to pass themselves off as cultured salon sophistos. It also dawned on me that they were probably after the contents of our wallets, but they were pleasant enough company for the time being and made us forget the oppressive gloom of my comrade's troubles. My drunken jollity combined with the novelty of the situation made me want to post a photo on Facebook of our motley gathering, but when I suggested taking a selfie, they seemed very confused. Remembering that this was a period dream and smart phones were not yet invented, I let the subject slide.

More time passed and it was now snowing hard outside. The door to the tavern slammed open and a band of heavily armed, burly men with straggly black hair, scarred faces and tattooed biceps trooped in, demanding booty. "Here come the Flintstones," I muttered to my companions. Everyone in the tavern kept silent, watching as the ruffians looted the place clean. Because they didn't attempt to rob anyone personally and they seemed intent on only stealing the taxidermied animals hung on the walls, the punters and landlord remained compliant. When they'd filled their swag bags, they marched out again, in slow motion to the tune of black metal, and everyone went back to their drinks.

The pink prostitute couldn't keep her eyes off me, and I suspected that I might have a problem with her later on. I decided to call Li to join us, whose plane had recently landed. (Yes, modern technology was creeping in by this point.) Despite Li's eventual presence, they seemed unperturbed in whatever it was they were planning, although they did let out effusions of "Oh, how lovely!" when she joined us. "Let's all go to see the new Star Wars film!" one of them later suggested. After making plans to go to the city cinema the next day, we parted ways and retired to our respective abodes, but not before Pink secretly squeezed my hand during parting and gave me a suggestive silk handkerchief.

The dream skipped over to the next day, and we were all on the cold sunny streets of Moscow, making our way to a shabby downtown cinema. At the side of the main thoroughfare, Li and I were distracted by a throng of people watching dancing Russian bears. The bears were heavily malnourished, their bones protruding, and they had brittle, hay-like fur with numerous bald patches. Through rings in their noses, they were yanked this way and that by bulhooks, the trainers flogging those that were slow to respond. After much goading, they were manipulated into climbing on top of one another until they had formed a pyramid stack. A tattered poster blowing in the breeze read, 'Witness The Incredible Bear Pile - Only In Moscow!'

Suddenly a rotten cabbage flew through the air and hit one of the trainers. This was followed up by a shout from a group of Green Peace activists who had appeared on the scene. "Murderers! Barbarians!" they shouted. I noticed that those bears too old or exhausted to perform were being hanged by the neck from wooden scaffolds, to the extreme amusement of the watching peasants. Li tried to drag me away as we were losing our group, clearly such spectacles were daily occurrences here, but my blood had risen and I shook her off. Sensing trouble, the trainers made a protective barrier around their animal commodities and began to draw cudgels. I decided that it was better not to get involved, but I did flip them off and shout "Peasant scum! Murderers!" before running off like a coward. Such is life in Moscow.

Chinese Circus

In my first memorable dream of 2016 I was visiting another Chinese zoo with family and as usual, running out of time before closing. I began in the aquarium which was a darkened area punctuated with the glowing green windows of tanks. In a parallel to the scene featured in The Drunk Tank, I saw a bloated eel, this time a green moray, swallowing a small zebra fish. I called my sisters over to watch, repulsed by the abject sight of the eel's bulging, squirming throat and the zoo's lax management in keeping predatory species in the same tank as defenceless prey. An announcement in Mandarin declared that the zoo would shortly be closing, and as I was eager to see the hippos before it did, I split off from my family and went my own way towards the back of the zoo.

To reach the pachyderm yards, I had to navigate past a huge sports hall that was being used to train staff and animals for the circus acts that the zoo regularly put on. Rehearsals were underway so I determined to go the long way round to avoid interrupting or drawing attention to myself. Before I did so, I peeked through a curtain and saw a troupe of acrobats, some dogs, a chimpanzee in clothes, and a hippopotamus of prodigious size and fatness, its legs like stumpy sausages barely able to support its massive weight. The mammoth beast was the size of an elephant and of an obesity I had never imagined possible, its fatty sides rolling in mounds of quivering flesh, the shape of its whole body like a barrel tub, Posters on the wall indicated that the hippo was a popular animal celebrity called Big Boy, with a long performance history.

I decided that I would rather see the more normal hippos in their enclosure, so I pressed on, descending a winding stairwell which I hoped would bring me outside of the building. I got to the bottom level and found myself in a concrete yard, fenced off as far as I could see by a green mesh fence. A groundsman eyed me suspiciously, so I asked him the way to the hippo enclosure to prove I had nothing to hide. He gestured for me to go back into the building and up several floors to a higher level and before I knew it, I was back at the circus hall. Rehearsals were still going on, with the human performers undertaking a variety of rolls, tumbles, and flips on sports mats. The dogs were made to jump through hoops, whilst the chimp tottered around on two legs in its gaudy outfit. The hippo stood placidly by, obediently following the instructions of its trainer when called to.

I think I woke up before I made it to the hippo enclosure, but I decided that it was time to publish my real life experiences in Chinese zoos on here.