Took a promethazine early last night, as I was too exhausted to do anything useful with my evening, and it was upsetting feeling so useless. As usual, this led to being out like a light for ten hours and at least one weird dream.
So I was on a coach trip; some sort of school excursion deal, and in the seat next to me was Peter Davison.
We had a long conversation about acting and television production. And it turns out that he is every bit as lovely as you would expect.
Anyway, as you do on long coach trips, we got a bit tired, and as we'd become firm chums by then we had a bit of a snuggle. Nothing inappropriate; just a perfectly innocent, congenial, arm-in-arm, head-on-shoulder snuggle. That's a thing isn't it?
It turned out we were going to some workshop, and I ended up on a table full of strangers where we did the usual icebreaker thing. I couldn't see any reason not to say that I was currently living in Havana.
When somebody, much to my surprise, asked what it was like living in Cuba, I said breezily "Oh well, you know seaside towns. They're all much of a muchness. It's very like Coffs Harbour in that respect."
Later, I had to do some photocopying. The photocopier was quite featureful, to the extent that it had multiple CD trays, which kept popping out and sliding back as I was pushing buttons, fruitlessly trying to make it copy. Eventually I did something that made it start playing quite loud music (London Calling, by the Clash), and I thought "I'm not having this. I suppose I'd better wake up."
I really must have another go at suggesting to my GP that we should add progesterone to my regimen of pills, as by all accounts the dreams one has on that are quite the experience.
If anybody lives round Peter's way and happens to bump into him, say hi for me.