I was in some kind of pub, bar, or fast-food restaurant. It was crowded. Men, mainly older men, were standing around tall counters and drinking. They looked like taxi drivers, pensioners, shop hands, office workers. I ordered several things, including some Gouda cheese. I do not remember what else I wanted, but there were a few more things for sure. The plump young woman taking my order was sitting at the till and writing everything down without ever looking up at me. She was dressed in a white apron. Perhaps she also wore a white headdress. A middleaged man with receding curly hair and glasses walked over, leaned against the wall by the till, and told her something in an incomprehensible local accent reminiscent of East London. It could have been Dutch or Danish, too. When he finished speaking, he chuckled. She said nothing. Although she appeared oblivious to him, I had a feeling she had heard him and understood him perfectly well. Having taken my order, she gave me the bill. In return for a large bill I gave her, she gave me a load of change, mainly five-pence coins. She went to what seemed to be the pub window to fetch the cheese while I struggled with all that change. I was stuffing handfuls of it into my pockets. Five-pence coins were slipping through my fingers and falling on the floor. I tried to pick up some of them. The floor was very wet. A film of water covered the floor, which was littered with soggy cigarette butts and small pieces of paper. I found a few larger coins that others must have dropped before me. I remember wiping the wet coins with my hand before stuffing them into my pockets. When the young woman appeared again, she was carrying an almost empty tray with cheese-filled tarts. The cheese was white, young. Only three or four tarts were left at one end of the musty tray. A wilted sprig of parsley completed the cheerless picture. I realized it was entirely possible she had no idea what Gouda was. At that moment the young woman said something to another waitress in the pub, who was also wearing a white apron, and who said a word or two in response. The exchange was almost cheerful. They spoke Russian. I did not understand what they said, but I had a distinct feeling they were making fun of me on account of the stale cheese-tarts. I suppose I was to be the dunce who would finish off the tray. One thought that came to me at once was to engage them in Serbo-Croatian to let them know I understood their little ploy. I was still wondering how to react when I woke up.