Can you recall your dreams?

I cannot, though my wife constantly shares tales of spectral lottery numbers—she does occasionally win—or loose teeth. But recently I experienced a significant dream in the Martin Luther King tradition that continues to haunt me.

Initially, I didn’t realize I was dreaming—everything simply felt unusual. I observed myself waking and reaching for my timepiece on the nightstand. It read 7:00am. I barely noticed the Casiotron on my wrist, still partly in slumberous territory. Somehow I understood I needed to board the 8:15 bus, so I rose. My avocado-hued bathroom appeared rather unwell, and the shag carpet beneath felt more worn than before. However, I hadn’t yet put on my glasses.

One thing did make me pause momentarily when I collected the milk bottles from outside the front entrance. But I dismissed it—thinking doesn’t come naturally at 7:30am. Where was my newspaper? The paper delivery child had thrown my Evening Argus—likely from his Raleigh Chopper—into the neighbour’s yard. I couldn’t begin my grapefruit without reviewing the headlines and Adam Trimingham.

For some cause the newspaper appeared in monochrome. Had I lost color vision? No, the wall covering remained distinctly orange with floral motifs.

The Bee Gees were keeping things alive on the radio while my Pop Tarts charred in the toaster.

Then I noticed the front-page headline—”Labour councillors vote to turn back clock.” Now, councillors may vote on various matters but it doesn’t always impact things. Well, council charges do increase; potholes get reorganized. We did once have a vote on prohibiting nuclear weapons. I’m grateful Brighton possesses none—we’d likely end up nuclearizing ourselves. Palmeira Square appears as though we already have. If I were Peacehaven, I’d be rearming though.

Now, when I glimpse my reflection, I’d prefer turning back time. When you observe Palmeira Square’s condition, you might desire rewinding—to an era when parks featured flowers and floral clocks. But how far had councillors resolved to wind back? Had they accomplished anything meaningful?

One glimpse at the approaching bus revealed everything—took me straight to the 1970s. It resembled something from the London to Brighton automobile rally with its cream and red coloring. Suddenly my surroundings made sense. My greatest fear had materialized—I was inhabiting the perspective of our beloved council leader. The buses—and everything else—had been seized by the council.

It was a classic Routemaster bus. The conductor—recall those?—with ticket machine hanging from his shoulder, awaited me. He resembled a naval officer in his cap and blue uniform—no fluorescent vest anywhere to be seen. Haven’t clothing standards declined since then? And the price? 5p for a one-way trip. I could adjust to this! Perhaps my home loan would prove more manageable. It was as though transported to an episode of ‘On the Buses’ featuring cheeky driver Stan and his best mate conductor Jack. Stan—around 40—resides with his mother, perpetually complaining about the telephone being disconnected or the settee wearing thin. He shares the home with his sister, Olive, and her spouse, Arthur. He consumes sufficient fried breakfasts to occupy the National Health Service. And he always dons a necktie—even during dinner. He was working class. His troubles would be middle-class nowadays.

As I gazed from the window, little else had transformed. Certainly, traffic was far lighter. And there was Hannington’s. Churchill Square optimistically remained open-air—the Spirit of Brighton towering over the town like a concrete monument or something from 2001: A Space Odyssey. We seem to possess a talent for constructing massive structures.

Yet so much else felt recognizable. Three-day weeks—call it remote employment. Power cuts looming, and unrest in the Middle East. Any longer with Ed Miliband leading and I’d have been consuming spam fritters regardless. An International Monetary Fund rescue looms just ahead. America engages in a conflict it cannot win—we decline participation. The Prime Minister renegotiates terms with Europe.

What could distract me from this horrifying vision? I know what others don’t—Star Wars will soon premiere at the cinema. Atari approaches. Margaret Thatcher will become Leader of the Opposition. No need for Tinder—just locate her number in the telephone directory. Truly, circumstances could only improve. And then I awakened.

Alistair McNair leads the Conservative group on Brighton and Hove City Council.