Will I ever go on holiday again?

Last night I dreamt I went on holiday again. It seemed to me I stood by the departure gate, and for a while I could not enter, for I kept setting the metal detector off. Then, like all unvaccinated dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed through the barrier.

The boarding tunnel wound away in front of me, its sides covered with weeds. As I pulled my hand luggage on squeaky wheels, I lost sight of the open door of the plane, and then it appeared again, the smiling stewardess beckoning. I came to the door suddenly with my heart thumping.

There was a British Airways Boeing twin-engine jet, and my seat on it, secretive and silent as it had always been, the navy blue leather shining in the moonlight of my dream.

Time could not spoil the beauty of those navy seats, nor of the plane itself, as it gleamed like a jewel on the runway.

The grey runway lay placid under the moon, like a lake undisturbed by wind or rain.

I lowered myself into my place and saw that the stewardess was staring at me with accusing eyes, an oxygen mask on her mouth, miming the safety demonstration.

As I sat there, I realised the plane was not an empty shell, but was breathing, heavy and laboured. No, it was coughing. Or was it full of people coughing?

A voice said: ‘Good evening, all genders and none, this is your non-binary captain speaking. Welcome aboard this gluten-free, vegan, nut allergy-proof flight to…’ But I couldn’t hear where we were going. The lights on the runway were extinguished.

I looked down and realised I was wearing a bikini.