Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This.

Last night I had that recurring dream again. You know, the one where I've murdered a pensioner and concealed her body about the house but I'm bricking it 'cause now I have to dispose of the body. Every time I have this dream I devise a new and ingenious method of disposing of the corpse. Last night my idea was to rot off the flesh in my composter, then get rid of one bone at each campsite in the country. It was brilliant - the kids love camping. I'd drop the bones in remote lakes, bury them in forests, perhaps at one of the more 'lively' campsites I could leave the skull in a Karaoke bar. Then I woke up, as I always do, distraught and absolutely believing in this shitty nightmare. It takes me up to an hour to figure out it's not real.

What's the dream about? I looked up 'bones' on a dream interpretation website and it said they represent secrets that I fear being revealed. Neat. Except that I don't think I have any secrets, except possibly from those nonogenarian relatives whose heart attacks I don't want on my conscience. And they're deaf anyway. They'd probably think I said "Tree in a Shed".

Nah, I reckon I'm psychic. The dream of distributing bones around the kingdom echoes that medieval thing where the king dies and you have to take his body to different parts of his realm. So like duh, obviously the queen is about to die.

You heard it here first.

Oh, and has anyone got any ovaltine I could try?

Let them eat crap!

My Lovely Spouse has for the last six years, had a Proper Job. Not working for the council, but for a private company, which means that he had an office that wasn't condemned by environmental health, a keyboard that wasn't covered in dried phlegm and cat hair, and most importantly, he got CAKE. Every time someone had a birthday, they bought cakes for all their colleagues. I was dead jealous, working as I did for City of Pork PLC, an organisation in which you have to chop off one of your toes and sacrifice a month's pension contributions if you so much as want to use the photocopier. Anyway, imagine my joy this afternoon when I turned up for work and T. the bus man (he makes them all run by pressing buttons on a tiny remote control on his desk) told me they'd had cakes at a meeting this morning and had saved one for me!
Four o' clock came and I was starving (probably the worms I caught from using council biros) so I went to look for my cake. It was one of those mini Victoria sponges with fresh cream in the middle. I took it from the fridge, returned to my desk and bit into......a rock-hard macaroon filled with Wensleydale cheese. In fact that implies it had some flavour, so scratch that. It was like biting into a cycle helmet.
I tipped it into my colleague's bin (I haven't got my own bin yet - I've only been there five weeks).
Then I logged onto the Jobs and Opportunities bulletin.
S. said that if it was any consolation, he'd got a blueberry muffin and it was wet.