Explosives, alcohol and dreams.
2002-11-12 at 9:16 a.m.

 

Hey. Well I got through yesterday. I didn't realise just how bad that damn hangover was until it was gone. But this morning I have sparkly clean hair and a sparkly clean brain and I'm ready to face the world.

I think that's tired me out just thinking about it.

I've lost all motivation in my job. I think my department is going backwards whilst everyone goes forward around us. I'm trying to eat lots of fruit and slow-energy-releasing things to make me feel better throughout the day. Personally I reckon caffeine is a lot more effective. Caffeine and nicotine. Why did I give up smoking? Still, I have alcohol left to me.

Meh.

Still, Mr Me had a cool dream last night. I never have cool dreams. I have dreams about people leaving me and/or dying (abandonment issues anyone? Nah. Sounds too dramatic). Anyway, his dream.

He dreamt he was King of Cornwall. Which would make me Queen. Neat. Except I'm a republican, and I'd be thinking of myself as an outdated anachronistic leftover from the feudal age. Do you think that lack of self-belief would make me disappear? Whatever. Back to the dream. He was King of Cornwall and the big bad English were trying to hunt him down and kill him. Bad English, bad. So he had to run away and couldn't go the way the rest of us were going so he had to run over the Tamar Bridge. Trouble was, the Tamar Bridge hadn't been completely built. So he had to take a running jump and try and land in the river and hopefully get swept out to sea and to France or Spain. Which, in the style of a true conquering hero he did. He ended up in France and took refuge with the Knights of St John by pretending to be a Catholic. They found him out eventually though because he was too good at fishing. So he returned to Cornwall as their triumphant leader and beat up the English.

Nice.

Sounds better than trudging to work in the rain to fix computers.

On the happy side of things, my mate's having a fireworks party at the weekend. Apparently these fireworks are so big and deadly that they had to be transported in a big metal box. Which is now in the cellar of the local pub. I'm fully expecting to turn up there one evening to find that the landlord had been smoking down in the cellar while changing barrels and flicked his cigarette stub into the fireworks and there'll just be a big gaping hole where the pub used to be.

Still. If that doesn't happen there'll be a party. Yay. And fireworks will be set off. Yay. And drink will be drunk. Yay. My kind of party. Alcohol and explosives. It just doesn't get any better than that.