Shoe horn

"Hngggggggggk..." jerk... crack!
That's me dozing off on the train, having one of those short but deep, dream-filled commuter naps. I've almost slumped to one side, a tiny dribble worming its way down my chin when I'm certain, for a split second, that I'm about to fall off my rock.
My head jerks upright, I awake, and of the half-dozen passengers around me, I suspect only one has noticed my Fat Old Git Dozing Off On The Train act, and she has the good manners to hide behind her Evening Standard. The pages are trembling slightly. She's bloody laughing, I know it.
I'd been flicking through GQ when sleep crept up on me. The dream was of faceless, naked women chasing me over the landscape from the opening scenes of 2001, their toilet bits replaced by gaping Scream-like mouths. Death was going to be a leathery, but well-polished affair, and I had to escape.
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