I dreamt that I was stuck at Gatwick airport together with a bunch of friends. All of them were British. I remember that we were quite confused about trains we had to take to London. Apparently, tickets for the train we were waiting for had to be paid in euros rather than pounds sterling. In addition, a form had to be filled before tickets could be obtained. The form was very confusing, as well. On top of everything, it was difficult to figure out when our train would be departing from the airport station. I do not remember much of the dream, but the memory of a couple I was with is indelible. About forty, she was pale and stodgy. She wore a tight blue cap under which only a few strands of wispy red hair protruded. Her head and neck were one. Pear-shaped, she was unusually ugly. And her husband was pretty good looking, at least by comparison with her. In his early to mid-thirties, he had a bush of curly blond hair. Wearing a tight leather jacket and jeans, he looked quite slim. Which is perhaps why she called him Double Trouble. The last thing I remember is a train pulling into the station. It was metallic-blue in color with a thick red stripe along the middle. And it was surprisingly long. There must have been at least twenty carriages to it. “Come along, Double Trouble,” she said imperiously and got up, “it’s our train!” Unconvinced, the rest of us remained in our seats, but he swiftly got up and joined his wife. Soon they disappeared in the crowd. When I woke up, I realized that the airport and its train station looked not a bit like Gatwick, which I know all too well.