At work, I can't remember what my function is. I've been told I'm staying on later as there's x y and z to accomplish. Another lad too is staying but he's not around. It's some kind of really old factory/wharehouse. Low ceilings, dark, small windows. Like the kind of http://www.chdt.org.uk/NetsiteCMS/pageid/740/explore_ropery.html where they make rope on a rope walk. Except where I'm working is no rope factory and the rooms, partitions, floor-spaces are not long nor quite like that. The manager leads me to a large table or collection of. There sat atop is a pile of white A4 copier paper. Some of it has child like drawings in fluorescent pink and its accompanying colours. Those you may fairly expect to occupy such drawings, like a single wobbly pale green line drawn using a cheap colouring pencil, crossed by a line of likewise quality but blue instead. The manager explains something or other. This other lad, who's not around, he's working till 8pm all next week, and he's to work on that computer over there, processing this or that something or other I don't remember now. I'm to do that until he arrives, then he's to do it, and I'm to do something even vaguer than my memories of what the lad who's not around is supposed to do. The manager leaves. He's told me I'm to stay on this evening. He's told me the other lad is working until 8pm this week, from tomorrow. I pause for a few moments, wondering when I am to work til, as if I am waiting for the chance to find the manager again, to inquire, to be over. Only then do I walk off to go look for him. In the lobby he's just gone through the first double-lock security doors. A woman with mousy tightly curled hair is just about to go through and I keep asking her to grab the managers attention for me. Apparently though she's deaf. Another woman with long straight hair, which is taking on a hint of grey, speaks silently, and I see the manager looking, the other woman looking, and all their mouths moving up and down and the sound from them is absent. Even from the woman who is on this side of the locked doors, an absence of sound. The second security door opens and they all leave, leaving me to wander back out of the lobby. I walk along a corridor and sit on a chair. I'm in the hospital now as is evident by the pale yellow crocheted blankets covering the legs of almost half the people waiting on the plastic chairs - young or old. Obviously, the chairs are either a red-brick sort of colour, or a blue colour of similar saturation and value. I think the popularity of the pale yellow crocheted blankets is curious, and then notice that of the people who have not a pale yellow crocheted blanket upon their legs, instead have a pale yellow crocheted cardigan, or hat, or socks. I look out the window and into the room adjoining the corridor, to my left. There are animated nurses sat at tables nattering to each other. I get up and proceed further down the corridor and through the double doors. Back into the factory now, or are we? Not quite. In the middle of the room is one of the mad-patients, and he finds something very funny. He's sat on two chairs which in turn are on top of a table. He purposely leans back and falls flat on his back on the floor which I find really funny. Someone tells me that this is not funny, he may have cracked his skull on the concrete floor. I see their point. Anyway, I walk past him, and through the next set of doors, to the yard. It's not a particularly sunny day, not bright shining sunlight, just a grey evening - if I'm to reason that a grey evening follows on from staying on at work after everyone else has left. Which, while I reason so now, you should forget that link, as I've introduced it after the event. On the walls are two dog sculptures, about the size of an Alsatian, but without the fury hair. They are aggressive looking dogs, perhaps cast in bronze, or perhaps stone. I don't exactly remember which, though I'm leaning toward the latter, as it would be more in keeping with the surroundings. The outside of the buildings are old, red brick in the laying pattern they don't use these days unless rebuilding or emulating old buildings. There are wooden trade entrance doors or those for loading - just the type of doors you won't ever see on a right-minded house unless it's a barn conversion or something. A little further ahead of me I recall a person. All of a sudden the dog sculptures turn a bright cobalt blue. The colour begins of course in their tails and proceeds to their heads where upon it reaching, they spring to life and one of them attacks the person ahead of me. I decide to intervene and talk to the dog, who might even have spoken back to me, but I can't be sure about that. Maybe it was a purely mental communication, maybe not. Anyhow, the dog stops the attack and changes colours again, this time to colours more suitable for a doggy. White with brown patches. This occurs just before both dogs leap back upon their plinths and resume their more decorative nature - as sculptures. I head back inside after some pangs of guilt about not working and wishing to attempt to find out what it is I'm supposed to be actually doing. Back through the room where the patient fell off his chairs and table, I'm grinning. Not only have I seen a patient do something really stupid, but I've seen two sculptures of dogs spring to life from stone while turning bright blue. I enter the next room and there is a circle of patients sat around talking with a doctor. One of them is talking about when he will be well enough to leave the hospital. I go up to him and start ranting "You'll never leave this place because you're stark f##king raving mad!". As I say this I see one of the people sat there, in a most laid back attitude with a grin upon his face, is one of the lads I went to college with to study A-level art all those years ago. He grins and says "You've got your own madness haven't you? Your own ++original++ madness!" - which I feel the need to confirm the truth of, but also, to demonstrate that it, my own original madness, I am quite at ease with. And so as to make clear to the other patients, to differentiate between myself and the them-who-respond-badly-to-their-madness, I proceed to narrate the story of the two blue dogs upon the wall. Unfortunately just as I am about to get to the mad part, where the dogs turn blue, I hear my alarm and something in my mind awakens me despite my wish to complete my narration within the dream, saying there's all this stuff that you _want_ to do today. So inevitably I get up, still wanting to finish the telling of the story and discover what happened next.