supermouse

I had a vivid dream, in which Neil Gaiman had received bad news about his health but was trying to give his all at a fannish convention despite it. It was heart-rending, really. I sat down to dinner, and, while the steaks looked and apparently tasted good, I'd ordered tarragon chicken with mushroom and apple. It turned up in a pasty white sauce without mushrooms or apple, or any flavour beyond a faint hint of the promised tarragon. It wasn't even decent chicken, but a pressed, shaped lump of catering meat. I'd complain to management but, of course, they don't exist.

Real breakfast was nice. Porridge, with Sessifet's rejected 'milkshake mix' of semi-dried bananas and strawberries and white chocolate buttons melted into the hot oats. Num. After that and a cuppa, I went up the hill again to watch the dawn do its thing. It became unbearably crowded by 6am, though, so I came back down again before the lampposts all went out. I didn't get to see the passerines foraging in the darkness; with the people around, they decided not to risk it. Worms in darkness is apparently a weekend thing.

There's a hurricane allegedly heading towards Scotland and Northern Ireland and Greece is still very much on fire. There's also a long cold front right down our middle and down all the way to Portugal. I had guessed it had been nippy last night, by the number of eight-legged crawling things that were skulking furtively around the house this morning. I don't usually expect to be invaded by arachnoid horrors en masse until September.

I might have to sleep with the light on.