Adrian Mole’s homeland.

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It’s SO boring to read about other people’s dreams, yadda yadda, but something about the masses of roasted garlic and cheese I ate made my brain go into REM overdrive last night.

(Or maybe it was the terrible, terrible toots gassing me into delusion.)

I had a dream where I was babysitting a(n internet) friend’s son while she was at some conference. In Leicester. No idea why either of us would have been there (she lives in the Midwest), but the dream version of her wee son was a wonderful little companion on a long walk around town.

Of course, it didn’t look like Leicester; it looked like the Edinburgh dream composite to which I seem to default, which is unlike Edinburgh (oblong, tiny, castle is on the northernmost edge) in almost every way except that it’s hilly. I expect this dreamspace even less like Leicester (I’ve never been).

When we got back from our wanderings, we were exhausted and hungry. What good luck that h had some kind of baking/chemistry set that worked by pouring hot water into it, which somehow both mixed and heated the ingredients into a cupcake. With icing. I wish I could invent this. I’d make millions.

There was also a dream subplot involving my roommates having to run to London to get in contact with the Fug Girls, who were at risk of being sued for printing something too early and/or potential libellous? I guess there’s no internet in the East Midlands. But then how would they have known there was a problem?

Dream brain, get your shit together.

Anyway, they were too late, and the site was taking down because of resultant lawsuit. Weebro and Paul the Projectionist (also inexplicably in Leicester) were amused by my being sad about a ‘chat app’ being taken down. I cried, screaming that it wasn’t a chat app, it was a community, and it was important, and then I woke up.

I have headache from sleeping in too long. I wanted to see how this shit was going to play out.

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