I WAS LIVING IN A CARAVAN in a field surrounded by trees. My dad and my children were living with me. The caravan was a small, white one, with the exterior panels missing from one side. As well as the caravan we had a large awning and a little wigwam. Inside the caravan was much bigger than I expected. There was a large kitchen. My daughters had been making sandwiches and had left slices of bread and bacon all over the countertops. I went outside and found my daughters. I told them off for leaving a mess.
My dad was outside fitting a large, green, metal contraption to the caravan roof. I asked him what it was and he said it was to prevent the kitchen from catching fire. Then we walked around the caravan together. I noticed there were gutters and downpipes on one side. Most were black, but one was blue. I suggested my dad paint it black to match the others and he agreed.
I flew across the field at low level. There were slices of bread and bacon everywhere, and crumpled brown paper bags. I came to a white building. I entered the front door and exited through the back to a tall wire fence with an open gate. I walked through the gate into another field where I came across another small caravan. I built a shower and attached it to the outside of the caravan.
Just then, a couple of young children appeared. They went inside the caravan and started smashing it up. I scared them away. Then I saw their dad. I told him he should control his children. There was a black and white sheepdog running around the field. I called out “Ziggy!”—the name of my (now dead) dog—but it wasn’t him.