painting, spider, smoking & babies

I painted a small abstract painting: red base with white, pink and other coloured brush strokes covering the canvas. I sealed the completed work with a gloss resin. I walked away from the 'art area' (a couple of tables outside, on a concrete square, under a shade cloth) over to a table where I was going to pack the work. A well-respected artist, an octogenerian, appeared and wanted to see the work. I was nervous of her critique but showed it to her. To my surprise, she loved it and passed favourable comment. As we were looking at it, it changed: it was now 3D, a collage of cut-out wooden shapes and paint. It was not quite as beautiful as it had been but it was interesting nonetheless. I walked back over to the art area carrying the painting but felt something crawl out from under the frame, across my hand. A large spider ran down my body and onto the ground. It ran around and I did my best to avoid it. I wasn't wearing any shoes and I was worried about stepping on it. We danced around the concrete square for a while before it ran away. It was time to leave. I had to catch a plane as I was due somewhere else. I realised that I had lots of work to do that I had not yet done - I had lost a day of work and would need to do my best to catch up on the trip. I packed my bags and hunted for the right shoes to wear. I chose a pair of high-heeled boots knowing they were not entirely suitable but the best choice from what I had. We travelled to what was supposed to be an airport but was more like an institution of some kind; a cross between a hospital, a shelter, and a shopping centre. I was to stay here a night or so before catching the plane. B and I found my bedroom and made the bed with old but clean pink blankets and floral sheets. She went to do something so I lay down and read for a while and smoked a cigarette. It tasted disgusting and I wondered why I was smoking when I don't smoke. The bedroom filled with smoke and when I finished, I put the butt out in an already full glass ashtray that was lying beside the bed. Immediately, my father and B walked in with a few other people. They commented on the smell of smoke and I told them that would empty the ashtray and never smoke again. I walked through the halls of the institution, toward the kitchen area where I intended to empty and wash the ashtray. I saw my friend, the artist who had liked my work, painting something in the vast room. I turned around and went in a different direction, too embarrassed to see her whilst I held an ashtray and smelt of smoke. I walked back through the halls until I found another kitchen where I emptied the glass bowl and washed it out. It took so long to clean it as other muck kept appearing and blocking the sink. Finally it was clean and I drank water to clean my mouth out. In the room was a woman of about fifty who had obviously had a hard life; she looked about ten or so years older. She was drinking and complained about things. I didn't want to be like her. I walked back along the hall toward my room and on the way I encountered a toddler who was seemingly without a family. I picked him up and took him back to my bedroom where B and my family were waiting to say goodbye to me. I showed them the baby and we stood in the room and talked. I was standing in the doorway with the baby on my hip. He laughed as snow fell down and lightly sprinkled his face until he grew cold. I put him in a pram that appeared in front of me and tucked him under the blankets. Another baby crawled across the floor, also shivering with cold. I picked him up and tucked him under the blankets too. He cuddled up with the first baby and they both slept soundly. I stood over them, the pram between my legs, protecting them from the cold.