Me and my wife were driving around for miles, and I needed to go to the toilet.

We ended up at Peter Mandelson’s place.

We sat at his table, which was laid out with various cheeses and dips.  

Peter was in conversation with someone opposite him.

The person to my left was tucking in to the food, and even interrupted Peter to ask for something he couldn’t reach.

Boris Johnson was sitting in the corner by the front door, which was curiously left open.

A journalist, Patman, was quite emotional talking to Peter, like he was going to miss him, wherever he was going.

Peter mentioned he recently saw an opera in Lee Valley.  He went to the opera dressed in a white suit and his friends were half his age.

My wife and I walked around his apartment. The walls were full of art, including a small Lichtenstein, and there were a few books on display too.

One room had a door slightly ajar, and it looked like a podcast studio, and then Kelsey grammer suddenly appeared.  Peter saw him and they had some banter.

Then Peter said his goodbyes.  I was sat on the floor, and he looked at me, patted my shoulder and said something like “don’t make the same mistakes I did”.  

Don’t worry Peter, I don’t hang out with billionaire pedos.

And then I woke up.  It was one of those dreams that didn’t feel like a dream.  But it didn’t really feel real either.  Anyway, thank God I’m not Peter Mandelson.