I am asleep. Now I’m not asleep. But I’m not yet awake. I’m in the twilight zone somewhere in between; no longer dreaming, not yet conscious. The synapses of my brain are just beginning to fire up, sensations drip, drip, dripping into my central nervous system, each drip bringing me closer to reality.

I pull the covers to me for warmth. Drip. Not yet prepared to open my eyes, not yet ready for the world. Drip. My head aches, my body aches, if I can stay in the land of nod I can delay these unpleasant sensations. I try to rewind the dream to delay the inevitable but the video of my mind has broken and the dream is not only over but gone. Something to do with lemons, but maybe not. No. Forgotten. Lost without trace. Drip. My hands start to wander, a scratch here, another there. Drip. Nothing untoward going on – it’s just that certain things need to be checked, counted, rearranged. Drip, drip, drip. Yep, one of those, two of these. OK. Best to just shift everything to the left like so. Drip. Hang on. Drip. Why have I had to push my hand under my trousers? If I’m asleep I should be in bed and if I’m in bed I should be naked. Drip. What’s the last thing I remember? Drip. New Year’s Eve. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. Oh hell. Drip. So where am I? Think. Drip. Think. Drip. Nothing. Blank. Oh well, I need to work this out. I need more information. I have no option, I’m going to have to open my eyes and let reality in. Drip. Here goes.

Eyes open.

Drip, drip, drip. But the drips become a flood; information overload. I’m looking directly at a young Chinese boy. His face is only inches from mine. I don’t live with any young Chinese boys which means that something is very, very wrong and someone, perhaps me, is going to have a lot of explaining to do.

He pulls his head back a little but he doesn’t avert his gaze. He’s crouching down, on his haunches, staring at me, studying me with an expression of curious fascination as if I’m some kind of exotic creepy-crawly. I try to say ‘hello’ but my mouth is dry and all that emerges is a dead croak. This seems to frighten the boy and he jumps backwards. Then I see that he isn’t jumping of his own accord, rather he is being yanked back by the concerned hand of his mother.

My frame of reference is no longer filled by his inquisitive, silent gaze and I am able to take in the scenery. I’m definitely not at home. Not unless builders have knocked through and built a lifesize working model of a newsagents in my living room. Overnight. Some of my friends like a practical joke every now and then, but this, I think, is beyond even them.

My eyes are still adjusting to the light and it takes a few seconds for the scene to find its focus. I’m in an airport. Heathrow to be precise. I close my eyes and shake my head as if shaking a kaleidoscope, rearranging the sands to form a different image. But when I open my eyes again the picture hasn’t changed. It isn’t an illusion. I’m in Heathrow Airport. It’s New Year’s Day.

I’m very confused. Scared, even. I look back to the Chinese boy forlornly hoping that he will be able to explain the situation to me. Instead, he stares back at me, emotionless, curious, still. I think he’s scared of me so I offer him a weak smile. He smiles back and tugs at his mother’s sleeve, eager to point out that the croaky man is smiling. She turns to see me but doesn’t smile. Instead she shoots me a glance so fierce that I wince with pain when it hits me. She bundles up her young charge and scuttles away. I’m alarmed at the urgency with which she escapes whatever threat I supposedly pose.

Suddenly I realise that my hand is still inside my trousers.

I look around. Hundreds of people are milling around. I’m on the cold hard floor. Fully clothed. Sweating. There are no covers pulled up around me, just a coat. It’s January the 1st and my first conscious action of the New Year has been to touch myself and smile at a young Chinese boy. No wonder his mum had shown such concern. ‘Happy New Year, Dave’, I think, ‘Happy New Year’.

I need to pull myself together so, perhaps it’s ironic that the first thing I do is take my hand out of my trousers. The second thing I do is run my hands through my coat pockets and discover with a mixture of relief and alarm, what possessions I have about my person. Wallet, mobile phone; relief. Passport; shit. That’s not good. And then … oh no, that familiar shape, the shiny paper envelope, the stiff cardboard. Surely not? No! Please? An airline ticket. Scared to learn the truth, I lift the flap of the envelope, and peek inside.

Oh.

My.

Life.

Washington DC! A ticket to Washington DC!

But it is much more than that. It is a ticket to insanity, to obsession, to the start of an adventure; a googlewhack adventure.