Was the parsnip soup to blame? Schappelle Corby starred in my dream last night. Along with a lot of old women I hopped on a sort of mini-train which delivered us to a sort of theatre restaurant built on a tennis court. Schappelle, who had just had a very bad haircut, greeted us all at the door and showed us to out places at the long communal trestle tables. A troupe of Indonesian judges carried around trays loaded with plastic mugs of tea and coffee. I was given a very large yellow mug full of lukewarm black coffee with a small band of whitish scum clinging to the rim. On a tiny stage fringed with coconut palm leaves, a blurry amateur dramatic performance ensued, featuring lycra and show tunes. Then we all snorted some coke, through lollipop sticks, from the Andes-like line centrally deposited down the full length of every table.