Lisa woke me up at 5am this morning to tell me I'd been talking in my sleep. Apparently I said "Well you wanted me to get a job, Paul", in an accusatory tone of voice which implied that it was all Paul's fault that things had gone tits-up since finding employment. Personally I don't remember dreaming anything, and haven't met anyone called Paul for about five years, so I expect she misheard me. I was probably wide awake and said 'fool'.
Alternatively, my chattiness may have stemmed from our trip to Asda yesterday evening, when in an event of extraordinary (and frankly unlikely) coincidence, we met Dick Damage. Seriously. Now, I realise that the chances of having spotted Dick (mmm... spotted dick) shopping in the fresh meat section of Asda just four days after finding him on the web and discovering that he lives in Lewes, nowhere near Brighton Marina, are slim to say the least... BUT... it really did look like him. And both Lisa and I were convinced it was the winklepicker himself the moment we laid eyes on him.
Unfortunately it did nothing to raise my spirits, as seeing him in the flesh (well, the streaky bacon section), the man looked even more of a shambles than I'd imagined, and I wouldn't trust him to look after my goldfish, let alone my fort. Not that I have a goldfish. Or a fort. So it probably wasn't him.
Anyhoo, I need to go and get ready, as my Big Sis is visiting Brighton today en route to Gatwick. Which means a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stuff myself with fast food courtesy of her bank account. The diet starts tomorrow.