Some people dream about flying a lot, but I'm pretty much clear on the whole "can't fly" thing even when asleep. Congratulations to my subconscious, then, for figuring out this morning that while flying under my own steam is fifty types of implausible, flying in an invisible plane is just fine. But, it really would have been a lot cooler if I'd heen brave enough to get up from my position (scrunched nervously up against the back wall), lie down on the floor and stare at the ground below and pretend I was flying. By the time I'd worked up the nerve, I was back in the plot again, and it was one of those dull go-back-in-time-and-avert-disaster stories. Nice scenery, though, sort of Bauhaus does Mount Olympus.

Damian goes on holiday and the tech in the house makes incremental progress towards modernity. We now have proper cable, which (in addition to classic FM wallpaper television and an entire channel of documentaries about flight) means the return of Samurai Jack. Last night it was the episode where Jack gets turned into a very heroic chicken! Yay!

No progress from me, however. Work is slow and annoying, it's taking three times as long for me to do things as it should, at least. Evenings are migraine duty, complicated by a very painful neck. At first I thought it was basket-weaving strain from monday, but I'm now tending more towards the idea that something very noxious bit me. It's got that sort of organic acid burn feel to it. It's under my hair line, so examination is out of the question.

I should never have let my hair grow.