Dream 1: What if I didn't live with Damian?
I wake up in a tidy room. The floor is clean and the rug is different, I mean non-toxic, and there is simply a lot less *stuff* in here. The table is clear except for a small pile of bills waiting for me to pay my share. Something else. The desk with my drawing board isn't there. Where's my drawing board? I struggle out of bed. Hm. Pyjamas. Outside my room the corridoor is tidy, clean and empty, no boxes of unsold comics or dead tech heading skipwards. My huge, ridiculous hatstand dwarfs a neat, feminine coat and outdoor shoes. The kitchen. Clean and grey. Where's the bookshelf? My (pretty, kind, reasonable) housemate hums her way in, her robe belted neatly, and pulls the ironing board out from the corner (already out, she uses it so much) and starts to iron her blouse. "Where's my drawing board?" I ask. She smiles at me, indulgently, and laughs. "You're so funny," she says, "You have so much stuff." I smile apologetically and stumble out of the room in a panic. Where is it? Where? Behind the standard lamp (where's beautiful susie?), the door to the cupboard under the stairs. I throw it open, inside it's full of stuff and there, there's the drawing board, thank god, I put it away, I didn't throw it away ...
Dream 2: What if Damian were my boyfriend?
Er, no, I don't think I'll share that one. It was odd, though. Not what you'd expect.
What the fuck? I just went over to The Site, probably my second most regular stopping off point after youthinformation.com, and it's been replaced by a Netnames statement. Aargh! That's it, I'm going to lunch.