Weird, weird dreams last night, containing a rather scary zombie attack from zombies who weren't quite as shambolic as Shaun of the Dead would have you believe. They knew where I was and they were coming to get me and doors and windows and walls weren't going to stop them.
I was only hiding out in that small triangular-shaped flat, high above the city cos I was trying to keep away from the rozzers after murdering two nasty men who had been following me with nothing but my own strength and a rather over-effective Vulcan nerve pinch. In retrospect I should possibly have got rid of their bodies more discretely, rather than carry them round with me for a bit and then just tossing them in the river. But my excuse is that the stars made me do it.
It was a beautiful night, but the stars seemed to be flickering. A lot. And moving. The city's skyscrapers shimmered prettily in the distance, and the big zooming asteroid that came hurtling through the sky to eventually flatten half the CBD leant a sort of apocalyptic beauty to everything. But it was ok, because a small talking fox with a passion for the number 9 joined me in the garden. We only had six chairs at the table at that point, but we managed to locate another three to make the fox happy.
However, it was deeply unfortunate that the fox should end up at immigration, only to be zipped up into a spare, empty suitcase to be taken to quarantine. They were going to burn the suitcase afterwards, but I worried that they might forget to let Mr Fox out first.
No celebrity cameos as far as I can remember, although I have had a couple in recent weeks, they weren't worthy of mention here.
Time for breakfast.
Ooh, glad to be awake
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I once dreamt I was trapped with hungry zombies aboard a Russian nuclear submarine that was sailing underneath Bradford.
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