Dream -- Christian Bale vs. Russian Zombies At Christmas

I'm living in the UK during a time when zombies exist, and instead of having virtually wiped out humanity, they are simply regarded as a bit of a nuisance, and life goes on as normal. As is demonstrated by one of my friends, you can stop a zombie from attacking you by telling them something unexpected, like "I want to be eaten!" This catches them off-guard, and you can carry on down the street without fear of being attacked. The zombies can also talk, and they're not decaying - it's more like they're possessed rather than living dead.
However, after a while the zombies overcome the disadvantage of the "saying something unexpected" thing - it no longer affects them, and they bite you anyway. This was how my friend was eaten - the same friend who demonstrated the "saying something unexpected" thing earlier in the dream.
Me and my family decide that the UK is no longer safe, and so we take a plane to Moscow. Alas, when we land and look out of the windows we wee that the airport and presumably the entire city and possibly the country is completely infested with zombies. They begin to board the plane, and start eating all the passengers. It's total chaos. I'm sitting right at the back. I start fighting off a zombie when I give up, and accept my fate. I offer my wrist to the zombie, and he's so close to biting that I can feel his hot, wet breath on my wrist. Suddenly I see a young Christian Bale, from around the time of American Psycho, standing at the very front of the plane fighting his way to the exit. Christian Bale or death? I make a split-second decision, and run to catch up with him. We manage to escape the plane, and start fighting the zombies outside. I find an axe, and start thwacking their heads in. Christian Bale has to take a turn though, since I'd never used an axe before, and my muscles were beginning to stiffen up. I notice that the patch on my left wrist where the male zombie breathed on me has turned very pink and hot, and I can feel it stinging and burning throughout the rest of the dream.
We just see a horde of zombies approaching round a corner when a heavy green door to our right opens, and we hurry inside. The door was opened by a muscular bald man with a thick moustache, who shows us to a room he calls the "basement", even though it's above ground. The room is dark, and cluttered with all sorts of junk - most noticeably a half-broken yet fully decorated Christmas tree, and a heap of presents on top of a pile of cardboard boxes. Me, Christian Bale and three or four other survivors begin tidying up, pulling camp-beds from under the debris. I open one of the presents - it's addressed to "Kirstie". The present turns out to be a pair of pretty black suede lace-up boots, but I put them back since they're obviously too small for me. Meanwhile, Christian Bale is ranting about the fact that the bald man is charging us eight dollars a week to stay here. He goes out for a walk after ranting about the fact that, in order to make butter, the cows need to be outside. While I think about his anger at this, I look through a window and watch a line of five or six woodlice drop off a tall wooden fence, with a soft thump, one by one into a small and unlit bonfire. I know the bonfire will never light, since the wood is so sopping wet that parts are dissolving into mush.
I then find myself looking through a different window at a peaceful meadow in the midst of a summery haze. This is evidently not the time nor place of the zombie apocalypse, since the window is very old and old-fashioned - long, low and single-glazed with thin lead crosshatch to make small individual squares. There is a hole in one of the squares, about the size and shape of a cannonball. A fly keeps zooming in and out of the hole, something which makes me furious. Angrier than I've ever been in any other dream. I actually swear at the fly, although I can't remember what I said. I push the window and find that I can bend it outwards and inwards without breaking it. I turn to see what the room looks like, and find that the "basement" has somehow moved to here, and has gained this strange window. I pay particular attention to a mass of purple tinsel strewn all over an armchair, that glints in the sleepy early morning sunlight. My mum walks into the room, and I start crying because when we left the UK she didn't bring the book of stories that I wrote when I was small. This is all I remember.