mde2017 has started well.  I made my To Do list ahead of 1st January on a pin board of a type I’d wanted for years and years (the joy of Christmas gift suggestion lists – yes, I know there’s a touch of smugness and pretension about it!).  I know myself well enough to know that a list on a scrap of paper or within a notepad will be forgotten about/ignored within days of 1st January enthusiasm for a year of brilliance.  So here is my list of things I want to do in 2017.

They are in no order, I am sharing them at least in part because I need every possible assistance in getting them done (I hope a monthly update might be good motivation) and they are all things that I really want to do and many I’ve “thought about doing” for years, mainly 3, 4, 11 and 12.

Unfortunately, I ran out of Ss and Es so I had to alter a few things and use some full stops as a ditto symbol and a $ for S.

For January, I wildly hope to do the following, the numbers corresponding to the board in the photo:

  1. Possible, surprisingly.
  2. A small amount of progress likely.
  3. Not going to happen yet, this being something I’ve planned to do for years.  I fear this could be as likely as 4 below.
  4. No, I need to get back to pre-Christmas-excess levels before I can even contemplate the diet/exercise horror.  I fear this is the item I am least likely to adhere to.
  5. Posted Day 1 of a portrait challenge (but 365 days over however many years it could take) and Day 1 of a 365 days of travel challenge to follow (to last however many years it takes to have 365 days abroad or not in the immediate vicinity of London and the south east!), so both will have started this month.
  6. I’m aiming for two – yes, overachiever potential!
  7. Already embracing this and feeling good about it, particularly since turning notifications off.
  8. Unlikely to start in January.
  9. Brr, winter, but I’m hoping for at least one outdoor meal.
  10. I’m going to Iceland this month so there will definitely be more fish in my diet, including the best lobster soup ever.
  11. Pff, I’m still recovering from not long having completed the last tax return.
  12. Unlikely.  Very unlikely.

{06/10/2012}   Forgetting keys

I managed to leave my house keys in my flat.  On that keyring are my boyfriend’s flat keys.  I was driving between my flat and his flat, about an hour and a half, with my cat, who hates being in the car and on arrival at his flat, some 15 minutes or so (could have been worse, yes) before he arrived, after much searching and swearing (from me and Izzy the cat), I knew with certainty exactly where they were, hanging up in their special place in my hall; I hate doors that don’t need extra locking.  So my swearing cat and I sat in the car outside the flat while I contemplated what else I could possibly have forgotten and what things I have forgotten in the past.

I once flew to Frankfurt for a day’s work, wearing trainers and jeans and generally looking scruffy, and at some point had a vision of my work clothes neatly piled on my bed.  I had wondered why my bag was so empty, having left my suit behind.  Bizarrely, on landing at Frankfurt, prepared to buy a work outfit, I got a voicemail saying my job had cancelled!  So glad I hadn’t yet bought an unnecessary new suit.

I have yet to forget my passport (though I did have a panic about that when I realised I’d left my keys behind!).  I thought that was it but now I remember I’ve left keys behind before, though again not as bad as it could have been for I only had to lose about three hours of my evening to get them back (ie I had to go and find my flatmate, who was enjoying a meal out, and collect her keys!).

I know of someone who’s left their laptop on a Tube before, never to be seen again.  Oh, I remembered another one: I did once leave my cash in an ATM, about £90, and it had gone by the time I got back to the bank.

I also love that my boyfriend once drove to LHR, parked his car, flew to Hamburg, a few days later returned … to LGW, got home and realised he did not have his car and that it was accumulating parking charges. He also once thought he’d los his car keys somewhere, having been unable to find them while standing next to his car in an airport car park, so got a taxi home … and found his keys in the bottom of a bag he’d had with him as he’d been standing next to his car failing to find the keys.  I feel mildly smug that I have not done anything like that. But now I’ve written this I have a horrible feeling I have tempted fate!

I write packing lists and when I left home yesterday I had a series of lists of things to do and to pack.  It troubles me greatly that it would appear I now need to write “keys” on packing lists.  I am just so lucky, as is Izzy, that we only had a 15 minute delay getting in.  Otherwise, I guess I’d have had to drive with my already irritated and scared cat to my mum’s to pick up my spare keys and then to mine and then back to London.


I live on the top floor of a Victorian house which backs onto large private gardens/a small park that is for the use of everyone, including me, who backs onto it.  I’ve lived here over a year now and realise I know a fair bit about some people’s routine or habits.  I see a possible film from this, though it’s not exactly Hitchcock’s Rear Window in the excitement stakes!

Someone has a chubby brown and white cocker spaniel who has a permanently bandaged “useless” back leg.  The dog seems happy and enjoys three-legged running around.  I am always amazed by animals who just get on with the joys of sniffing and running despite, for example, missing or malfunctioning limbs.  He seems like a sweet dog and I like seeing him running around.

The man who has just left the park now is quite tall and seems to go into the gardens wearing a suit.  Before work he’s with a dog and after work he’s usually with his children and the dog.  Maybe he sometimes doesn’t wear a suit but I only recognise him in a suit.

One hot, sunny Sunday morning, maybe 8-8.30am, I spotted a man, probably in his early 30s, wearing a t-shirt and shorts exiting his garden and walking straight across the grass for maybe 10m.  He was armed with a newspaper.  He then plonked himself on the grass and proceeded to read the paper.  Within minutes, a similar man exited his garden a few doors down and walked maybe 15m across the grass, armed with a paper, which he then sat down to read.  If I am not mistaken, clues from what I could see of the gardens of the houses they came from, they both had wives and children in the house.  Hmmm.

There is a family a few doors the other way and quite often two children from there and one from somewhere else go cycling around the gardens.  One of the little girls is hideously bossy and shouty to her friend and can only ever be in front as they cycle around.  I wish the other girl would find a nicer and better play mate.

As for the houses, one evening there was a power cut in my flat but I thought it might just have been my flat due to a surge.  I looked out and realised everyone was affected as some residents to one side of my vision usually have a massive flat screen TV on, usually a largely green-screened sport.  It was off, so easy to conclude there was a power cut.

One lot of people have a very fancy garden shed.  I am convinced it’s a little study.  As soon as it gets dark an outrageously bright light comes on.  It ruins things for me.  I have often thought about disabling that light.

Not so long ago, one family bought a large trampoline.  I can see that these are fun things to have, but I would have fun for a maximum of five minutes before collapsing on an exhausted heap.  After an hour, they were still bouncing and squealing.  I suspected summer would be a riot of trampoline noises, but, unsurprisingly, that was soon laid to rest.  Similarly, some children made a rope swing off the branches of trees.  There was much excitement for up to a week, but all has fallen silent with the rope swing too!

I really like having that space at the back of my flat and it’s nice to see and hear people enjoying being outdoors.  I have been in it once, merely to walk across it and see my house from that side.  I always thought I’d sit in it and read a book, instead I have become a curtain twitcher and merely look at it!


I have absolutely no interest in being a celebrity and it is supremely unlikely I will ever be one; it would be hell, largely because of the paparazzi and supposed public interest in my daily activities.  Thinking about my activities yesterday (nothing out of the ordinary and certainly no boobs on display), I wondered what it would have been like to have done those things knowing that I was being watched and photographed and that at some point the most “interesting” or risqué photos would have been published with some kind of tag line.

I have long suspected, due in part to mild hay fever, that I am a nose fiddler – “picker” is more visual and gross than I care to associate myself with – so there were probably plenty of finger-up-nostril moments.  I would not have enjoyed seeing these splashed across the weeklies.

There was a near incident with a duvet that I had drying on my balcony, namely that it almost blew away so I had to make a perilous lean.  I suspect there was some cleavage on display, though I reiterate no boobs on display (I do feel very sorry for Kate Middleton).  I suspect that could have attracted some interest, though surely scraping the barrel.

It may have seemed odd that I moved my car a bit for seemingly no reason.  The exciting truth was that I wanted to move my car from being under a notorious seagull and pigeon toilet perch as I have recently had it cleaned.  It may also have been noticed that I retrieved a bottle of wine from the boot (good job it wasn’t the day before, when I retrieved three large bags of wine from the boot!).  That, coupled with a mistaken belief that my hair could go three days without washing, could easily have led to rumours of my hitting the bottle, which would have been untrue I hasten to add.

I petted a neighbour’s small dog at the top of the flight of steps up to the house in which my flat is located, which suggests I could have given pappers an unrestricted view of my bottom from a most unflattering angle.

I walked to the train station with – scandal – a man.  I later sat on a bench where a (very odd) man circled my bench on his bicycle.  It could have been manipulated to look like an illicit tryst or some such.

I put a bin bag into the wheelie bin.  Some prying creep could easily have had a rummage in that for gossip fodder.  They would have largely found blue mussels (long story but they were retrieved from a toilet full of blue colouring, a Bloo toilet flush), sachets of cat food and remnants of French food packaging.  I could have been labelled a binge eater (hmm, not as far off the truth in this case than it would normally be!).

I went out briefly later on to post some letters, I’m sure the subject of them could have been scandalised/incorrectly guessed.

I really did do very little that was outside or near a window viewable from the road.  However, just writing this makes me see to a certain extent how easy it could be to make my life a figment of other people’s imagination and unrecognisable to me as my daily life.  It must be so hard to maintain normality if you’re hounded by the press and you must always be aware of what you’re doing, what you’re wearing and even what you’re throwing out.  It actually makes me feel repulsed to think about it and sad that so many young people aspire to be celebrities.

After a mere two pints and a shot of black Sambuca last night, I feel most put out to have a morning headache that can only be attributed to a hangover.  What has happened to my tolerance levels?  I shouldn’t be feeling hung over.  I am going to have a think about this and see if I can work out an unscientific, unresearched theory on my alcohol tolerance levels.

Maybe the Sambuca tipped me over the edge?  Maybe the beer was stronger than I realised?  I know these are not viable reasons, for at no point did I actually feel drunk beyond getting a bit more yabbery than normal.  One pint wasn’t even a pint, it was a bit less as it was from a can.  Oh dear.

We ate a fair bit of food over quite a long time, incidentally a delightfully authentic Japanese restaurant on Goodge Street.  We all had one drink at a pub before dinner, one drink with dinner and the final drink at another pub.  This all seems perfectly acceptable and I am most put out to have this wretched headache.  It’s the kind that hasn’t shifted despite a couple of paracetamol.  It’s not really bad, it just covers a small part of my head above one eye and is serving to remind me I am not as easily repairable post-alcohol as I once was.  Probably this is my body’s way of saying it tolerated student-esque alcohol consumption for quite some years and now considers it’s done enough and will punish me at a far earlier stage from now on.

I have now finished a restorative tea but still have the headache/hangover.  I’m wondering if a fry up is the order of the day, but I have a headache so don’t want to go to the effort (going to the shop or to a caff) and anyway I actually don’t fancy that and this is not an all-consuming hangover that requires large quantities of salty, fatty food.  Sometimes, I appal myself that I can sound as pathetic as I do and that I put this “out there” for other people to see how truly useless I can be.  It’s just a piffling headache caused by … see, herein lies my issue: how on earth can two pints and a shot be excessive, particularly as there was food consumed?  Surely one incy wincy shot of Sambuca mixed with the two beers I’d had earlier doesn’t constitute a mixing your drinks no-no?

I suppose there is a chance my hangover is dehydration based.  I went out last night feeling thirsty, “forgot” to have some water before I consumed the first pint and only had one small glass of water after my Sambuca.  I then didn’t have any water before I went to bed and have this morning had a pint of squash and mug of tea and do feel a tad thirsty.  I did go through a phase of matching the volume of alcohol I consumed with water.  I do think it helped quite significantly, if only because the water stage slowed things down somewhat so left longer gaps between alcoholic drinks!

I think I should cull my pathetic whines about feeling hung over and conclude that I should have drunk water and that it’s good to have a lower hangover threshold – incidentally, how much would you expect to pay, in a central London pub, for a pint of lager and a double Bombay Sapphire and tonic?  I am clearly out of touch because I was expecting change from a tenner.  It came to £12.  Outrageous.  So drink less alcohol, drink more tap water, save money and don’t get a hangover!  Easy.

I have just read a quick-fire interview with Tom Jones by Rosanna Greenstreet in The Guardian Weekend from Saturday.  I thought I could pretend to be of great importance and answer the interview.   I am not intending to linger over them so will answer with the first thing that comes into my head and there is a chance my answers might be a bit naff and unexciting.  Here goes:

When were you happiest?

For about a year when I was working in Japan.  I realised I had gone there on my own and was a version of me unhindered by familiarity to others and type and had made great friends, was earning decent money and my memories of a week gone by were of fun things I’d done, not work.

What is your biggest fear?

The deaths of those I love.

What is your earliest memory?

I have confused what I “remember” from photographs with what I really can remember.  I vaguely remember walking up Thurnham Lane with my mum toward my school, possibly on my first day, so I was five.

Which living person do you most admire, and why?

There’s no one person but I always find myself in awe and admiration of people who devote a lot of their time to looking after others.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?


What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Having no comprehension or regard to the feelings of others in pursuit of what they want.

What has been your most embarrassing moment?

There have been many but the most recent was my exchange with Harry Hill over a genuine neighbourly issue that rendered me a jabbering rollercoaster of unfunny one-liners.  I am cringing as I think about it.

What is your most treasured possession?

I am trying to detach myself from possessions so I resent thinking about that.

What would your super power be?

To fly.

What makes you unhappy?

Feeling unable to DO something about an issue or situation.

What is your favourite smell?


What is your favourite book?

A horrible question as there are favourites for different moods and times in my life but I have read Haruki Murakami’s “A Wild Sheep Chase” at least three times and I rarely read a book more than once.

What would be your fancy dress costume of choice?

I would do everything possible to avoid fancy dress, but if I had loads of money and could rent a perfect outfit, I’ve always wanted to wear a medieval dress.

What is the worst thing anyone’s said to you?

Anything unjust, uncalled for and deliberately hurtful or mean.

Cat or dog?


Is it better to give or to receive?

They are inextricably linked so both in equal measures.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?

I hate this question.  I might think X would be a great person based on my knowledge of them from TV etc, but in reality they might be a prize idiot, and anyway I wouldn’t want a table full of strangers at my dream dinner party.  So a select few of my friends gathered from all over the world.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

I know there are many because people mimic my repeated phrases but I can’t think of any as I guess I’m not particularly aware I’m overusing phrases, except that when people tell me them I realise I do use them a lot!

What is the worst job you’ve ever done?

Nothing springs to mind.

When did you last cry, and why?

At various times throughout the Paralympics and Olympics at people’s amazing stories and achievements.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Feeling confident that I can do things on my own.

What keeps you awake at night?

Stress and seagulls.

What song would you like played at your funeral?

Something cheerful and upbeat.

How would you like to be remembered?

As a good friend .

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?

There are too many to answer with one for life is a wealth of lessons that you can choose or ignore learning from.  [I am beginning to feel sorry for celebrities who get interviewed and asked these questions all the time]

Where would you most like to be right now?

In the Blue Lagoon in Iceland: hot water, cold air, blue sky, floating on my back with my eyes closed to the sun, feeling the weight of the world being drawn away … there with friends and unlimited funds on my wristband so I could have the odd beer at the water bar.

{02/09/2012}   Forgiveness

Team GB Paralympic Beijing gold and silver medallist Simon Richardson, a cyclist, was cycling (safely and responsibly) along a road one morning in August last year when a 60-year old farmer, having knocked back a whisky that morning, after a heavy night of drinking, got into his car and set off, drunk.  He hit Richardson on his bike, which flung him into the air and rendered him unable to compete in the 2012 Paralympics.  The drunk driver drove off and tried to hide his van.  Fortunately, by the next day he (still twice the legal drink drive alcohol limit) and the van were found and he was eventually given an 18-month sentence.  I was outraged by the whole series of events and extremely angry at the incompetent, irresponsible and disgraceful behaviour of the drunk.  Who I don’t think should be given the credit of being called a “driver” in a state like he was obviously in.

However, in the article I read Richardson bore no ill will to the man who caused him so much pain and suffering and there was no trace of rage, resentment, blame, etc, for, among other things, losing out on his chance to compete in the London 2012 Paralympics because of one man’s irresponsible behaviour, to put it mildly.

Usually, on reading such a story, I would feel only rage at the drunk.  But because of the gentle, forgiving reaction by the cyclist, I realised that my reaction was to pity the driver, thinking how weak and pathetic he was rather than feel sorry for the cyclist; an interesting and refreshing perspective.

If somebody does something undeniably wrong that affects the life of an innocent party, I think it is a natural response to feel anger at the wrongdoer.  But this whole scenario has left me thinking that I would (sort of) rather suffer someone’s wrath than their pity and I would rather think of the goodness of the wronged than the badness of the wrongdoer, if you follow me.

People have done things that have enraged me and I have been left with a bitter taste in my mouth, as it were, and it’s not pleasant when such things fester and consume you.  To harness your anger and accept what has happened has happened and get on with your life is surely a more positive way to progress.  I just don’t think I could be that calm and seemingly forgiving of someone whose hateful actions caused me severe detriment.  But what good does blame do?  It doesn’t make you feel better and it hinders your recovery.  I guess you’d know and hope (or is that just me?!) that, in this scenario, the drunk would be riddled with guilt and thus have punishment; an 18-month sentence doesn’t seem harsh when his actions could easily have killed innocent people rather than causing complicated injuries to a man already seriously injured as a result of a car accident.

I would like to think I could be as “accepting of my lot”, and maybe I’d surprise myself by managing that, but I don’t think I have it in me to be that forgiving, positive and determined.  But I was surprised by how my reaction was altered by the forgiving, blameless words of a man who has been through so much.

Last night, feeling virtuous for having eaten and enjoyed a salady lunch, I allowed myself to eat two chocolate éclairs for my evening dessert.  I didn’t feel guilty at all until I remembered that I hadn’t had a particularly healthy breakfast (toast and peanut butter) or dinner (crème fraiche and smoked duck pasta sauce).  According to the somewhat inappropriately labelled “Nutrition” information on the éclair box, it would appear that in my dessert alone I over-consumed my daily fat “of which saturates” GDA and had 30% of my calorie intake.  What point is there in healthy eating if you can’t then have a guilt-free treat/binge?!

My friend who stayed from Monday to Wednesday is both vegetarian and pregnant.  With ease I had two days of healthy food, with emphasis on the vegetables.  I didn’t drink alcohol, I didn’t snack and I even heroically let her have the last ginger biscuit and the last bit of fruit and nut chocolate.  She left and I turned to éclairs.  My unscientific and unresearched conclusion is that it’s all in the mind.

A year ago a friend of mine did a fortnight of detox as a holiday.  I thought this a most ludicrous proposition, until I discovered how easily she lost weight and enthused about her vegetable-water based diet and then the (I perceived) novelty and aesthetically pleasing food she was gradually introduced to after the virtual fasting phase.  She had vegetables made to look like noodles and dishes of many colours and somehow nuts mixed with that seemed truly decadent.  I was thus introduced to the spiralizer, a contraption that I have as yet deemed too expensive and potentially faddy to buy.  However, making healthy food look exciting appears to be a recurrence in the progression of my mindset of food being largely cheesey/buttery/meaty to a less fatty, more virtuous diet.  I always used to scoff at vegetarians who ate, for example, quorn shaped to look like chicken chunks or mince, but I can now see that that paves the way to following recipes for meat dishes, of which there are trillions, instead of just opting for the far fewer recipes for vegetarian food.  It’s all about the psychology of eating.  Probably.

I have decided to call it the Cocktail Effect based on the fact that pretty and unconventional things to consume are far more appealing than familiar and bland things.  I once went a night out without drinking a drop of alcohol but working on the basis I was on a binge drinking session, thus enjoying myself thoroughly and feeling I could get away with being a bit of a mouthy prat, as can occur when I have a drop too much alcohol.  While not as expensive as I’d expected, I ordered my way partly through a cocktail menu.  I vaguely recall the odd comment about it not seeming like there was much alcohol in my cocktails, but I think I got enough of a buzz from the syrups and E numbers (this was a while ago when people weren’t as fixated with freshly squeezed juices and somewhere abroad where syrupy things were poured into my cocktails with a flourish – probably liquid sugar in a lot of cases!) to keep me contentedly “drunk”.  It was only towards the end of my evening that, on being passed a cocktail list by the person buying the round, I realised it was different … and there were various spirits listed.  On inspecting my cocktail list, sure enough I had the virgin cocktail list and I hadn’t even noticed there weren’t spirits listed!  But I had enjoyed my evening, had kept up with everyone else on the cocktail front and felt ludicrously sober-smug!

So my next attempt at a healthier diet is going to involve trying to trick myself into thinking my food is really exciting and risqué!  But how on earth do I find a chocolate éclair equivalent?  I have a particular soft spot/sweet tooth for Marks & Spencer chocolate éclairs.

{31/08/2012}   Impromptu nights out

Last night, having finished work earlier than expected at 4.50pm, I texted a good friend of mine, who I knew probably wasn’t at work, to see if she could meet me for a pre-dinner drink or two.  By 5.25pm we were both outside London Bridge station and headed off to Cooperage on Tooley Street.  As my work is so unpredictable, I appreciate last minute plans more than most people.  It’s also really great to be able to go out with a friend and have a drink (or a meal) when you are 100% in the mood for going out.  I love it when a last minute plan comes together!

We were only out for an hour and three quarters but that time was so much better than a phone call, or more likely with us when we don’t meet, a few text exchange catch ups.  I wish my social life could more often be like this, it suits my work life and my mind set.  Sometimes I have longstanding plans to meet friends, but on the day I’m really tired or finish work late or just want to get home and slob.  But without planning, I can easily see there is a chance that you won’t get to see some people and could end up with no friends available for last minute plans and/or not seeing anyone for ages.

It’s like new year’s eve; a lot of people feel they have to have something planned months in advance, but when the night draws near other options come up, you feel less inclined to go to whatever it is you’ve booked and, worst of all, you get apprehensive about the night because it’d be horrible to have a rubbish night out after you’ve spent so long planning it.

I’ve had quite a few exceptional nights out for new year’s eve, many of which have been left to the last minute to plan.  One such new year’s eve was planned either 30th or 31st December and ended with a group of five of us eating a chiminea-cooked feast (so all cooked outdoors!), drinking lots of bubbly and playing games.  No pressure, just a group of people who hadn’t really planned what to do.  No expectations can lead to great things, I reckon.

I also like the fact that when things aren’t planned in advance, when a meet-up happens there is a sense of jubilation that such a plan could work so your evening is already a success in terms of making you feel good, which largely is what meeting friends is about.  Going on holiday to Somerset last year, I drove near Winchester, around where two friends live who I shared a hall of residence with in my first year at university.  We keep in touch but rarely meet up.  I contacted one of the friends in Winchester maybe two or three days before I knew I’d be passing on my way back to see if she’d be around.  Not only was she around and happy to have us all visit, our other nearby friend was also free.  Any attempts for more than two of us from that particular group of four to meet had failed and not even been initiated for years.  We had a really lovely afternoon that I bet wouldn’t have happened had we organised it weeks or months in advance.

Still buzzing from a lovely catch-up last night, I have a few people in mind to try next time I finish work early or have free time in central London.  And hopefully someone will try to get hold of me at a last minute opportune moment too!

{01/08/2012}   Remembering dreams

I’ve often found it frustrating that I can’t remember dreams.  People have written novels based upon their dreams and I feel deprived of that source of weirdness, interest and creative thinking.  However, I suspect it can be a bit unsettling and perhaps even annoying to remember every night’s weird brain activity.  But I really want to remember last night’s, I think, early morning dream.  I woke up feeling like I’d been active, perhaps some kind of super hero, thus reflecting a side of me that is as yet unchannelled?  Perhaps?!

As with how I remember films and novels, I am usually left with a feeling for the kind of dreams I’ve had and I’m sure that filters down into my morning mood.  This morning I am feeling that I will get a lot done.  I got up at about 6.45 on a day when I don’t have to get up at any particular time.  My brain feels buzzy, my body a little tired but I find myself frowning for I know there was something frowny in my dream.  Today I feel particularly frustrated that I can’t remember what I was dreaming about.

The most common things I remember are snippets; I can rarely piece together a whole dream sequence and if I can I am desperate to tell someone.  Crikey, this really is how my awake self remembers things, ho hum.  Why do people enjoy telling others about their dreams?  I actually enjoy listening to people regaling me with dream details, it offers an insight into their psyche and enhances an interest in (very amateur, unsupported by credibility and non-anecdotal substance) psychology.

I am most prone to remember everyday things that could actually have happened.  This is quite annoying because I will ask someone about, say, the new car they’ve bought.  But they haven’t bought one.  As a teenager I had a recurring dream, which amazes me that I can remember, whereby I had a paper bag of sweets that I put amidst all the clutter in my desk drawer.  That sequence, possibly extending to the choice of favourite individual sweets, and the hiding of the bag was the extent of the dream as I recalled it.  So many times, I don’t think the next day, I would feel a sweet craving so rummage for ages in my messy drawer looking for my sweet stash.  I would always come away without finding any sweets and confused at the clarity with which I knew exactly where in all that mess my bag of sweets was, despite the fact I would often take the contents of the drawer out.  I was adamant the sweets were there; because my recall of the contents of the drawer was so accurate, how could my vivid recall of the bag of sweets be wrong?  Another similar one was about fifteen years ago, living on my own.  In reality I had only a bit of toilet roll left and shopping for more was probably on my mind as I went to bed.  In the morning, I awoke in a veritable panic for I was convinced the reality was that I’d bought toilet rolls but the whole pack just consisted of huge rolls with about three sheets of paper on each.  I have no idea how or why I still remember those dreams.

I wonder how many people out there this morning are remembering their dreams and wondering what they could possibly mean.  I feel slightly envious of you, I would like to know why I am now feeling so productive and alert!

et cetera