I dreamed last night that we had to set my old school on fire. Adam Buxton helped us, and afterwards lay in a bath looking regretful and determined as everything burned. It was sad but necessary. Tim however had dreamed one better -- that there was entire extra floor of the house accessible through the crawlspace above the verandah with tables and a junk room and tall gothic windows overlooking an alleyway somewhere (obviously nowhere near us, we called it the transdimensional floor). This is what happens when the cat wakes us up, miaouing like an alarm clock.

This morning I find myself thinking that I should have changed my clothes before cooking last night. I did pheasantburgers from the farmer's market ("Are these the ones that are too smashed up to sell whole then?" "Yes.") and they were fragrantly gamelicious, and this morning everything smells a bit tasty.

Speculation last night about the Blakes 7 remake down the pub got a little fevered. I've now received emails about it from so many different sources (three from my Dad!) that I'm thinking about dusting off the lurex quilted jacket and having a party to celebrate. We could watch the one where Avon and Vila shrink Orac down to ipad size and break a casino while Cally and Jenna have a cat fight in the basement. You remember, the one where Servelan wears red. I wonder how well it will translate into our post-millennial world? It seems to belong to a simpler time, when revolution was a state of life, problems were invariably insoluble and everyone you met was hostile, traitorous and overdressed. Nice shoes, though. To this day, when I see a pair of fancy shoes being worn in a quarry my mind goes back to Blakes 7.