Last night I had a dream.

I dreamt that I was a lonely old man living in a rundown flat in an unfamiliar city. I dozed in a battered old armchair, and the doorbell rang. I dragged my old bones and looked out of the window. Outside there were dozens of young men. All of them handsome and athletic. These boys looked vaguely familiar. I excitedly waved them up.

They walked through the door into the gloomy room. But wait. What’s this? These weren’t young boys. Instead, a procession of old men walked in. Unkempt old men. Fat and bald. Like me. I stared at them. Such disappointment.

And then I realised that these were people I had once loved, liked, and given into temptation.

But amongst them was a young man in his twenties, and I was quite taken with him. I asked him why he was with these old men.

“My name was Tom,” he said. “And you were someone I once loved. You were the only one I ever loved. But you ignored me because you said I wasn’t good enough. I vowed that when I died, and I died young, that one day I would come back and show you what you missed.”

All the old men laughed and jeered.