Here we see a big, grassy meadow, the grass greener than anywhere on the Disc. Wildflowers grow in large patches, in a multitude of colors, all brighter than would seem possible to the average person. The meadow stretches for miles in every direction, rolling hills cascading smoothly with their ever-greener carpet of luxurious, soft grass. A stream, clear and sparkling, flows through it all, it's bed lined with the roundest of rocks, smoothed by the flow of water.
A figure stands in the middle of this beatific scene, tall, clad in a once-red bathrobe now so faded as to be pink in color. Blue bunny slippers, complete with furry ears1, cover his otherwise bare feet. He stands perfectly still, seemingly unaffected by the pure beauty of this place. Then his hands reach up to feel of his face, and hesitantly pull up the bright purple sleeping mask he wears over his eyes. Now that the man can see, he looks around at this awe-inspiring vista, an unimpressed expression on his somewhat plain face. Then he exclaims, "This isn't Klatch!"
If there were any bystanders, they would be shocked at this statement. Not the fact that it isn't Klatch, of course; that much is obvious. That the man apparently doesn't want to be here, in this tranquil scene. He speaks again, "This is my bloody dream, and I'd better bloody well go where I want to! And I want to go to Klatch!" With these words, the rolling meadow's brilliant colors begin to dull. For a moment, the landscape flutters, as if it is a rug that being shaken by an Ankh-Morpork housewife. Then it quickly starts to dissolve, another, even brighter, landscape filling in the blank spots, soon overtaking the grassy meadow.
In moments, the grass and wildflowers are replaced by sand, the stream with a small oasis, and the rolling hillocks with sand dunes. This, as any well-educated schoolboy could tell you, is Klatch. The man in the bathrobe nods in satisfaction. "Now then, that's more like it." With this he looks down at his faded bathrobe and furry blue slippers with the bunnies on. "I'm going to need something a bit more suitable for the desert, now. I should have thought that would be obvious."
His clothing immediately, if somewhat reluctantly2, shimmers, then resolves itself once more, now consisting of light linen robes and more appropriate leather sandals. Feeling the sun beating down on his thin-haired head, he says, "And a hat, if you please." The air above his head wavers briefly, then there is a wide-brimmed straw hat sitting atop his skull.
"There we are. Now. A flying carpet would certainly be nice." Perhaps ten feet in front of him, a large camel suddenly appears, complete with halter and saddle, pleasantly3 chewing over it's lunch, most likely for the second time that day. "I said flying carpet, not walking rug. Bloody dreams..." The camel disappears as quickly as it came, with a confused sound much like a dying donkey with laryngitis might make in it's final throes. In it's place appears a somewhat ragged around the edges carpet, floating three feet in the air, albeit perhaps a bit unsteadily. "That'll do," mumbles the man to himself, climbing aboard.
1 Amazing what you could find in those second hand stores, really.
2 Scientists around the Disc have argued whether clothes can, in fact, be reluctant. Or happy, or sad, or angry, for that matter. It is generally agreed that they can, but only when exposed to magic for prolonged periods, or when in dreams.
3 Camels are almost never pleasant. The last recorded incident of a pleasant camel was in the Century of the Milkworm, and turned out, upon further investigation, to be a hoax involving a mule, a large sack full of cotton, and a very drunk audience.