Six TVs sit around our dinner table and beam and blare at each other. News, comedy, a cartoon, two commercials, a wildlife documentary. On the table, little models of people from the shows and commercials run around, confused by the glare from the screens. Like an animated thumb, Bart Simpson skateboards among them yelling, 'C'mon, c'mon!' in a piping little voice. Then he rides straight into a plate of lasagne and I can't hear him any more.

The TVs become searchlights that beam down on the night table. I realise that I am on the table too, desperately searching for Bart Simpson among buildings of ruined food. Overhead the chop chop of helicopters gets louder and louder.

Then the ground beneath me opens up and I fall. It feels like I am lying on my back in the air, although I know I am falling. The giant TVs squat like beacons on the tops of cliffs. Their searchlights can't penetrate down here in the darkness.