On the first night of our camping holiday on the North Norfolk coast I dozed off whilst reading a bed time story, with a storm brewing over the sea.
I awoke to the realisation that the storm had developed into a tornado during the night and our caravan had been swept up and carried away over the North Sea.
We had been deposited in a foreign land inhabited by feral children brandishing burning sticks that they had whittled intricately with their sharp knives.
It rained almost incessantly for three days turning the once green field into a dangerous swampland. A combination of smoke and washed out colours viewed through rose tinted glasses gave the dreamscape an unearthly appearance.
But by the fourth day I had finished reading the story and the sun had broken the spell of wet weather.
So I hooked up the caravan, and towed it back to reality.