I had a dream last night that left me wishing I could keep myself awake more often. My insomnia has been really well controlled in recent months, but I'm starting to wish that wasn't the case.
In the dream - and I'd like to highlight the fact that at no point in the dream was I aware that I was in a dream; it all felt incredibly real - Philippa went into labour. For some reason, I wasn't allowed in the delivery room with her, and while the birth was happening, I had to go and help clear up a spillage of engine oil in the staff car park, which was underground beneath the hospital. When I was allowed back up to the maternity wing, I had to climb 700 steps that curved around the outside of the building, before breaking in through a triple-glazed window (apparently, this was a Covid-secure measure brought in that morning). Philippa was asleep, and a weird side effect of giving birth was that her body hair had grown ridiculously long, and she lay there like some kind of sexy sasquatch.
When I asked where my new child was, the nurse introduced me to a six-foot tall man standing in the corner, who introduced himself as TROY DUNCAN CHESWORTH and gave me a hug, saying "Hi, dad!".
If none of that sounds too bad, please bear in mind that when I caught a sight of myself in the mirror, I looked exactly like Rishi Sunak.
RC 26-10-22
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