South Park Self

Can't sleep. Semantic memory reclamation drones will eat my imaginary fiancee.

Last night I dreamed I was getting married to one of my curriculum advisors. It was one of those worrying, subtly-wrong marriage dreams: drifting around a giant, elaborate wedding in a rather pleasant woodland, being faintly perturbed by the fact that I didn't want this sort of wedding and didn't really know this person, and that all the guests were his friends, not mine. While I think the actual imagery was sparked by a general discussion of weddings in theory and practice last night (several in the vicinity lately), I also think that it's patently obvious that my subconscious thinks I'm in a bad relationship with all this curriculum advice, and perilously close to an unwise commitment. Today has borne that out. I keep stumbling over these giant omissions and errors that I've made while trying to run two major jobs simultaneously, and I find it deeply upsetting.

Also, I still have bloody Roger Whittaker on the brain. For all that it is, as strawberryfrog pointed out, a horribly schmaltzy tune, it's also ridiculously catchy. Apologies to anyone else such as Pumeza who is of the same vintage as I am, and thus open to this particularly persistent and syrupy earworm.

Now I need to email my mother, who will otherwise be horribly shocked by her cellphone bill, since her phone apparently phoned me off its own bat this morning and spent several minutes leaving a voicemail recording of a rambling conversation between mother and someone rather muffled about leaks in dormitories. Since she's in the UK, this is a rather expensive form of butt call. If you read this first, mother, chastise your phone.

(Subject line Goats, of course. Goats will provide a surreality for all known occasions).
  • Current Mood: apathetic tired, dispirited