As soon as I got home I went to bed and slept a fitful sleep. I had some really weird dreams that I can only put down to being ill. The problem is that they were so vivid that I've had to do a quick Google search to make sure that I wasn't re-enacting a weird sort of truth during my feverish sleep.
I dreamt that Julian Clary was running a marathon, with four other people, dressed as people going down an "up" escalator. Their costume was made out of a large cardboard box and was coloured with felt-tipped pens.
I dreamt that I was running away from something and spotted a house in the distance. I banged on the door and an old lady answered but slammed the door shut in my face. In a fit of anger, I thumped the door again. The door opened again, but this time a younger woman answered, but immediately morphed into a middle-aged man.
(I'm copyrighting this - it could be the start of a good story!)
I dreamt that I was three years old and on a bus. I was looking at some cows in a field and turned round to point them out to my mum but she had got off the bus and forgotten about me.
The last one is a recurring dream and has been going on for as long as I can remember. It usually happens when I'm upset or stressed about something but that isn't the case at the moment. Maybe it's my dream comfort blanket? I don't know. I was also doing that weird jumping thing just as I was falling into a deep sleep, waking myself up again. It's a vicious circle. Today, I can't sleep at all - not even doze on the settee (I'm still off work).
Headache. Feverish shivering. More stuff that you probably don't want to read about. I'm now out of sync and there's sod all on television. I'd actually forgotten how crap daytime TV is. I could be writing (I decided not to put myself under the pressure of NaNoWriMo until next year after all the OU pressures!) but I feel that whatever I write would be rambling. A bit like this really...