I'm woken by faint noises. Downstairs. I open my eyes, it's dark, much too early for John to be up. I look at my phone, it's 3.30am. I listen for a while. The radio? Low, mumbling, then my Dad's voice. Clearly my dad. Why is my Dad downstairs in my house at 3.30am, and who is he talking to? I get out of bed and look for something to wear. Christ, I can't find anything except this pair of Speedo swimming trunks. I didn't even know I had a pair of Speedos. Ah well, on they go. Open the door quietly and creep down the stairs. Light on in the kitchen, I quietly open the door. It IS my Dad. 'Dad!' I cry, 'what are you doing here?' He's making toast, he points out of a window we don't have, in a wall that should be shared with our next door neighbour. 'Look, the moon has risen, and it's not even 2.30am.' I stare at the kitchen clock (that we also don't have) - 2.20am. OH MY GOD, it's like that moment in Sixth Sense when you realise everything - my lucid dreaming triggers are seeing a moon out of the window and time running backwards. I'm asleep! I'm drea... BANG BANG BANG! I'm awake in my room, heart pounding, someone banging at the front door. Time, 8.50am. I don't get up*.
(*As our front door doesn't work, answering it involves running around the back and through the alley. If you factor in getting dressed and unlocking the back door, they're long gone by the time you get there.)