The Green-eyed Monster

Last night I had a dream of pure envy. I was being taken round a number of flats by an estate agent and a couple of his staff - don't know why we were mob-handed; I think they were trainees. I toiled up scores of stairs, opened doors onto hideous flats, one of which was festooned with creepy African masks, another which had a hatch leading up onto a roof covered in clanking Victorian machinery, rusting cogs and wheels painted a municipal green colour.

Then at last the agent opened a door to a flat which had a big lounge with lovely golden-varnished floorboards and a gorgeous fireplace. There was just one problem: we couldn't see any more as the vendor, a pretty young girl who had opened the door to us, was ensconced in another room with a recording engineer working on her album.

We were told to sit and wait. A middle-aged woman who seemed like a cook-housekeeper brought us all plates of food. I started eating some kind of gooey dish with avocados in it, when suddenly I had a glimpse into my past, to the days when I, too, had a recording contract(with Phillips) and a manager, only nothing came of it as I was told that although I wrote brilliant songs, I wasn't pretty enough, so they dropped me. I felt bitter, viciously envious of the opportunities young singers have today, when looks aren't all that matter, so I put my plate down, told the assembled company that I had things to do with my day and I wasn't prepared to wait around at some young wannabe's beck and call, and marched off.

And woke up.