Not last night but the night before I woke up from being an army medic in a moral dilemma. I was in some sort of black ops section with Robbie Williams in command. The soldiers had been told we were on some sort of mission, but actually, it was an experiment. I had a bunch of syringes on me, just ordinary sharps of the sort you find in public loos or diabetics' handbags, full of this creamy whitish gloop with a faint greenish glow. The idea was that I would inject this muck into the soldiers and we'd get supersoldiers ... Robbie had even found the perfect place to do it, a big church (the whole area had been evacuated, so we wouldn't be disturbed) with plenty of space inside. "Tomorrow night," he said, "Hey, I could sing!" His uniform was unnecessarily tight. Probably bloody Angels, I thought. Trouble was the stuff it hadn't been adequately tested, wasn't safe and would probably do them horrible damage or kill them ... but I was under orders. From Robbie. If I said no, or stamped on the syringes, he'd just shoot me in the head and tell someone else to do the injecting (Robbie had more of the stuff, I knew that). And then they wouldn't even have a medic on hand. He wouldn't listen to reason, so I'd have to somehow come up with a plan where I could put off the injecting without it looking like I was doing that ... I woke up fretting, going over and over my medical kit, looking for something that would help me discreetly do away with Robbie or cause some sort of crisis or help me escape or ...

Three days of peppermint and green tea and unchallenging soup hasn't helped settle my bloody stomach so today I'm chugging Resolve and Lucozade. Nature had its chance. If chemicals fail, I may have to use the dreaded beer cure. When the Resolve kicks in, I shall be selecting my 10-20 for the Grrr exhibition. With the Pet Shop Boys turned way up to drown my howls of bitter derision. Hmmm, I've not heard the neighbours for about a week now, maybe they moved out again. Urghhh. Come on ...

Added Trauma to the list of obscure British horror films I've seen but nobody else cares about yesterday. Colin Firth with PTSD following a serious accident going nuts over his ant-farm, a murdered pop-star and his irritating touchy-feely landlady. The film got a little over-excited about covering the stars with live insects (Colin Firth in a bed full of ants, Mena Suvari with a spider crawling out of her mouth ...) and consequently forgot to sort out some plausability issues, but it was uncosily familiar, all that alienation, shock and grief in a twilight zone of urban decay and bewildering London streetcrowds. Also stars Tommy Flanagan as his mate Tommy. Class.

Right. Time to stop prevaricating.