Terrible dreams this morning; I was defending myself against weirdo serial killers in a suburban home with freaky trash sculptures out back in a sort of covered yard. The son was slow but very strong, the Dad sly and mean. There was a gang of people sat out back eating a meal alfresco, I felt embarrassed when I burst out on them, but they ignored me, just kept on eating, chatting. It came to me that they were in on it, and wouldn't help me, in fact they planned on eating me later. I was fighting back (with a small saucepan) and making some headway, but each time I got through a door (he'd taken the handles off, but there was a trick to it) the house got a room deeper. I was never going to make it to the front door, and even if I did, hadn't there been something going on out there, something bad, involving hats and box hedges?
It's beautiful out there, but cold. I cooked at the flat for the first time last night and managed not to set anything on fire. I'm back at work. I have a storage unit for stuff that won't go into the flat (Suzy, the daybed, the comics, my drawing board). Not to worry on the drawing board, though -- turns out one of Staples' bog standard desks is made of tempered glass this season. So, not only have I got a new desk that makes me feel like a supervillain and offers endless comedic cat-sliding opportunities, but it also doubles as rather a good light table.
I'm stroking it and going bwa-ha-ha-ha as I type this.