Dad asked me to do him a favour while he's abroad: look in one of his bags to see if I can find any bits of paper, and tell him what's written on them.
I dreamt last night that I'd found the bag: it was old and made of dusty, flaky leather and lodged in a corner of the spare room. There were reams of inside covered in numbers that I couldn't quite read, but as I turned to the light to get a better view, a dog and a rabbit took the paper from me and escorted me from the room.
The bag wasn't in the spare room this morning, and the dog and rabbit I sleep with were across the room...
my life is beginning to resemble a Murakami story.