Whilst sleeping last night, I worried a bit. Into my dreams oozed giant snails, grossly distorted versions of the Giant African Snails my brother keeps in a plastic box downstairs, foggy with condensation. Into the nebulous uncertainty which was my dream crept a pen lid. People without faces graced the upside down pavements, and oversized red leaves fluttered from a stick-man tree on a page of English notes about Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. In slow motion I fell down the stairs.

Waking up abruptly, I forgot why I worried. I then worried about the forgotten worry, until I remembered the worry, upon which I worried some more. The worry disappeared this afternoon, along with a dull ache which requires hot water bottles despite already sticky conditions.