Having gone to sleep very early in the evening, I dreamed of being at a vague facsimile of university, and of meeting a girl who was exactly the same as me: a weird bean-counter type.  I revelled in being myself for once in my social life, challenging each other with logic puzzles in a sexually tense environment.  Eventually, the girl invited me over for some sexy time - into my own conservatory, in fact.  I showed her a dildo of mine and said that it had actually been moulded perfectly to the shape of my penis, because I'm buying a friend a vibrator tomorrow.  The dominatrix took control and had me deep-throat in various positions what oscillated between my own symbolically castrated penis and a peeled, sour-tasting banana, like I eat because I have to refrigerate them at uni - a symbol of scrimping.  I couldn't wait for it to be over and derived no pleasure from it - even though I had apparently always fantasised over this.  (Heads up: this is not true!  I fantasise over being the dominant one.)  It was an obvious parallel to the way my head goes when I have tried to have sex in the real world and felt in her control, or subordinated by my inexperience, especially recently.  I woke momentarily with the conviction that I needed to take control of my relationship.

I dreamed again of being at university.  I was part of a slightly shady club which met in a dingy room to do some sort of martial art.  When it came to it, however, we spent our time lining up to take off clothes, towel down and spray ourselves with perfumes.  I got into a tizzy, realising I'd gotten butt-naked and was taking ages and holding up everyone else.  Afterwards, the judge presiding over the session criticised me for lasting twice as long as everyone else.  As I put my clothes back on after the session, I was aware of the presence of some voice of opportunity in the changing room.

Next thing I knew, I was in London on New Year's Eve, on an elaborate set of steps with Dad.  He was dropping me off there.  As he left, he called from the other side of the street about having forgotten my dinner with the Queen the week before.  He checked his diary and found that it was actually later that day.  I was disappointed at missing my friends in Gloucestershire for New Year, but also elated to have the opportunity for dinner with the Queen; it was for some reason involving the aforementioned "martial arts" club's success.

Dad went to explain to whoever he had business with that he wouldn't be able to make it, and I wandered around, realising I hadn't said where to pick me up!  After an intimidating confrontation with a local rudeboy, I ducked into a small off-licence.  I picked up a four-pack of Foster's and something else and wandered to the entrance to join the queue.  There stood a security guard with a massive device which scanned my items and made their casing go green.  I wondered why the extra security, and, thinking of the price as well, had a mind to put my items back.  Then the shop started to move: it was actually a monorail train, and now I saw all the seats and straps around.  I panicked, as I don't know London well, and considered calling Dad, but knew he wouldn't pick up.  I was calmed by a gaggle of student girls and remembered that the next stop was by the steps I was originally at.  I asked the girls where they were going or from and they said, "Southampton."  I gave the girl who was speaking a hug and told her same, so we could go back together.

However, at the stop I was bundled out of the train by the horde, and my unbought items began to beep.  I tried to cross the road, but I was suddenly unco-ordinated.  A security man with a similar device descended on me and let me off, saying I could keep the items - as long as I helped his friend in the classy cafe opposite with lunchtime.  I begged the Italian proprietor to let me out shortly, as I knew I had to meet Dad and get back to Southampton and then back here for the Queen.  However, he was having none of it, and I considered surrendering my stolen items, guessing it was a mistake to go behind the counter.

I felt sorry for the man; he was in a bad way, fumbling around alone with a monster New-Year's-Eve-in-London queue of overprivileged young career women.  He bundled me unceremoniously behind the counter and I painstakingly squeezed out a cucumber sandwich and a bizarre plate of melted cheese and cranberry sauce for a couple of customers, learning desperately where everything was.  I knew I'd made barely any difference, but the queue had gone, and the Italian guy seemed quite satisfied.  I made to leave, knowing Dad would be waiting outside, and the Italian guy tried half-heartedly to bar my way.  Once I got outside, though, he turned into a reasonably attractive, if creepy, Chinese man, who cuddled me, thanked me and tried to kiss me.  Reflecting on an eventful day in London, I went over to Dad and walked off, and woke up.