![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
avevale_intelligencerLast night I was dreaming a Doctor Who story. Not a particularly classic one, from the bits I remember. The Doctor was McCoy, the Master was involved though i never saw him, and the setting was the back end of North London.
I don't think it actually started out as a Who story, because I remember the character I was following, who gradually became me, set out from the North of England to seek his fortune, and on his way down into London had to cross a river by means of a disused barge which had a gangplank on each side, and met a couple of disreputable idiots in oil-stained blue overalls who spent their lives taking home-grown legal drugs in a patch of overgrown wilderness on the southern side where a railway line used to be, getting horrible allergic reactions from the nettles and the drugs, but going on taking them anyway. He talked to them about Nycons*, and they seemed impressed with the idea, and he went on his way.
At some point, presumably after I became me, the Countess became involved, along with a carful of her aunts, also from the North, who were exactly like the women from Last Of The Summer Wine. They eventually left, and the Countess, for some reason, had to follow them part of the way in a horse and cart which we found in a disused garage. The Doctor and I set off northwards to thwart the Master and recover the TARDIS. On the way we had to cross the river via the barge again, and we found the two idiots were now squatting in it. It was twenty years later, the Nycons had run their course, but these two had been running a sort of permanent cargo-cult Nycon (gods know what it was like) in a disused warehouse (for some reason I seem to have the idea that everything in North London is disused) the whole time. I was tired by this point, so we stayed on the barge to rest, and when we woke up it had been arrested and was being towed along by the police. A nice young policeman gave us our shoes and two of those submarine sandwiches full of salad, and one or more of those legal drugs must have been effective, because the Doctor and I wwere both trying to work out which to eat and which to put on our feet when I actually woke up.
Nonsensical last line: "At this point everyone wants to know where's the animal and what's eating it. Well, the answer is, there *is* no animal, and *nothing's* eating it!"
This is why I tend not to remember my dreams. They're not bad, just badly plotted.
*Nothing to do with New York. For those of you too young to remember, we used to have twice-yearly gatherings of friends for food, fun and the occasional song, till we both got too ill and stressed-out to deal with the necessary preparation. The Countess has recently said that she misses them...
I don't think it actually started out as a Who story, because I remember the character I was following, who gradually became me, set out from the North of England to seek his fortune, and on his way down into London had to cross a river by means of a disused barge which had a gangplank on each side, and met a couple of disreputable idiots in oil-stained blue overalls who spent their lives taking home-grown legal drugs in a patch of overgrown wilderness on the southern side where a railway line used to be, getting horrible allergic reactions from the nettles and the drugs, but going on taking them anyway. He talked to them about Nycons*, and they seemed impressed with the idea, and he went on his way.
At some point, presumably after I became me, the Countess became involved, along with a carful of her aunts, also from the North, who were exactly like the women from Last Of The Summer Wine. They eventually left, and the Countess, for some reason, had to follow them part of the way in a horse and cart which we found in a disused garage. The Doctor and I set off northwards to thwart the Master and recover the TARDIS. On the way we had to cross the river via the barge again, and we found the two idiots were now squatting in it. It was twenty years later, the Nycons had run their course, but these two had been running a sort of permanent cargo-cult Nycon (gods know what it was like) in a disused warehouse (for some reason I seem to have the idea that everything in North London is disused) the whole time. I was tired by this point, so we stayed on the barge to rest, and when we woke up it had been arrested and was being towed along by the police. A nice young policeman gave us our shoes and two of those submarine sandwiches full of salad, and one or more of those legal drugs must have been effective, because the Doctor and I wwere both trying to work out which to eat and which to put on our feet when I actually woke up.
Nonsensical last line: "At this point everyone wants to know where's the animal and what's eating it. Well, the answer is, there *is* no animal, and *nothing's* eating it!"
This is why I tend not to remember my dreams. They're not bad, just badly plotted.
*Nothing to do with New York. For those of you too young to remember, we used to have twice-yearly gatherings of friends for food, fun and the occasional song, till we both got too ill and stressed-out to deal with the necessary preparation. The Countess has recently said that she misses them...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 08:06 pm (UTC)Clarification for the benefit of those who may be wondering: Nycons do not include and have never included "live sex shows."
Or sex of any kind, actually, as far as I know. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 09:34 pm (UTC)Someday the story of the Sheet may have to be told in full...but not yet. :)