I’m sitting at the back of an aircraft. A big one, like a 747 or something.

It’s quite hot. The stewardess offers to open the back for me. There’s a curtain to keep the “draught” off my back. She’s right, it’s much cooler. Effectively the back of the plane is on a hinge. the curtain does not flap but moves slightly as if in a very slight breeze.

The absurdity of this does not pass me by. I wonder at how amazing it is that, at whatever altitude we are flying at that moment, unlike all the films, I am not sucked out of the back of the plane.

We are coming in to land and, for some reason, I walk down the plane and into the cockpit. The pilots are laughing and joking with each other and, generally, having a good time.

I notice something that they have failed to notice and so, I point it out to them.

But they react too slowly and sure enough, the next thing is that we hit the back of the plane in front, on the runway, which forces it to hit the one in front, and so on.

I fly through the air, backwards, as if lying on a magic carpet, whilst, in front of me, where I have just come from, the plane is crumpling up.

It is a race to see if I will make it out of the back “door” by this flying I am doing or whether the crumpling plane will catch up with me before I make it out.

And, to that, we will never know the answer.

I wake up.