In a half-asleep revelation of fantasticness, I decided I WOULD NOT GET UP AT ALL TODAY. To stay in bed and stare at the clouds floating past as if they have some purpose in life. Like...going to a party. Or Sunday tea with a cloud friend. Watch the clouds, and when that gets boring, finish Enduring Love (Ian McEwan), and make comparisons between the scary Jed Perry guy, and the girl in that French film - He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, the one who played Amelie. With the smarties behind the wardrobe.

That didn't really work, as in a revelation of terror, I remembered (mid-dream) that I have things to do. Like Bridget Jones, I am very busy and important today. Only I don't have the short skirt, or Hugh Grant in the elevator. Not that I'd want him. He is slightly too foppish for my liking.

A Film Studies exam on Tuesday (marketing strategies and Tom Cruise amongst other unexciting things) and an English Lit exam on Thursday. (Sixteen Blake poems must be learnt near enough by heart, as does Death of a Salesman. The Color Purple needs re-reading and re-re-reading.)

So I lept from bed in a moment of huge panic, raced down the stairs, tripping over my feet. Only to get side-tracked by taramasalata on toast. A honey waffle. Tracey Chapman. Ian McEwan, who is unputdownable. (And I maintain that that IS a word.) My hayfever, and now my blog. And at the same time, there are things to be examined. Like prawns - do they still have little legs and little eyes, hidden underneath devious layers of Mary Rose sauce?

I fear I would get more use from my day by simply going back to bed. Sockless. Last night was the first night in forever that I took off my socks in my sleep. We are making inroads, my feet and I. No longer do my socks appear to be surgically attached.