Concealed in the cupboard.

Last night, I dreamt I had a beard. A proper one. Full and bushy. It didn't quite meet my sideburns that I also had, and this was the saddest thing about it. In some ways I thought getting rid of it would be a reasonable idea because it provoked a certain amount of pointing. But I really didn't want to. If in real life I was possessed of a full beard, I don't think I'd be entirely phlegmatic, let alone proud. But my dream beard was most beloved of me. So was the clotted cream sandwich.

Some nights ago I dreamt I was eating pancakes with the cast of the Carry On films, or at the very least with Jim Dale and Charles Hawtrey. When they'd finished, they stood and took a bow. I turned to my friend who was next to me and said 'Isn't this the most surreal thing you've ever done?', and she said 'No', kind of contemptuously.

In real life it's raining and the printer doesn't work and I don't actually have a beard. Though I do believe there are biscuits.