I can’t say I've ever had kilt-related feelings of deja-vu, but at one time I had strong vibes about being a British WW2 operative in Paris, running from the SS. I remember events vividly, even now. It was a sunny afternoon. I ran out of the cobbled street into a communal apartment stairway and was seeking shelter at the different apartment doors as I ran upstairs and tried the doors and knocked. I remember the echoing sounds of my leather shoes on the stone stairs, mixed cooking and domestic gas smells in the stairway and the sun shining through the apex-roof-light and dust in the air. Unable to find shelter, I rushed back down the stairs to try to escape into the street again, but Germans appeared when I still had just a few steps to go and shot me dead point-blank in a couple of MP40 bursts. I remember the shock of them appearing so soon, the feeling of being punched all over my body and breathlessness, everything dulling to grey, then nothing and it’s all black. FIN. It must have been a dream, of course, but if it was a dream, it’s the only one of many dreams in all those years that I’ve remembered so clearly till now.