I know spending Friday night overdosing on rolos never used to be my idea of fun, but hey. I've got old german footage of Echo and The Bunnymen on, and that storm that only Scotland were supposed to get is raging on outside, part 2. Dreams tonight may be random, as they will be sugar-fuelled and broken by the crashing of loose debris on the roof. Last night, unaided by sugar, alcohol or indeed any stimulants at all, I conjured up a wilful hamster, stage-diving into a water dish then rolling in sawdust, plus my mum getting married again, with my cousin particularly enthusiatic in a rainbow-hued flamenco dress.
No idea where either of those came from, given that I'd watched something about Abraham Lincoln earlier. Mind you I couldn't seem to get that into it. Electric 6's fault.
Before that I checked out what was irritating Mary Portas this week: phone shops. Some grey wigs, and lots of striding about like a praying mantis on heels. We learnt that one man with waxed eyebrows plus his body-popping brother equals a lamborghini.
Am praying deeply that parents' evening is not imminent, as the 11 year old has told his design teacher that mum met Lee McQueen where she used to work. Like the leopardskin coat, that might be a detail they aren't ready for round these parts.