Now, whilst the plot was fairly sketchy, I spent a fair amount wandering across misty moors and roads and forests in search of a house to buy – ostensibly (for some reason) for a bishop. And at one point I even ran into a cat-nun straight out of Doctor Who which tried desperately to put me off.

And all the while I kept hearing whispering, source unknown, which proved pretty unnerving in its own right.

Now, the lucidity of my dreams of late has been making me think that my unconscious is trying to have words with me. So I headed over to www.dreammoods.com too if any of these symbols might reveal anything interesting.

Oh boy. Seem to be two major themes running through this one…

“To hear whispering in your dream, suggests that you need to pay closer attention to something or listen to someone more carefully.”

Well, that’s presumably my unconscious going “oi! Rob! Listen up you big eejit”.

“To dream that you are in or walking through the forests signifies a transitional phase. Follow your instincts. Alternatively, it indicates that you want to escape to a simpler way of life. You are feeling weighed down by the demands of your life.”

Definitely true – especially at work, which I’m finding myself increasingly resenting at the moment.

Houses represent your soul and self. Empty houses represent insecurity. Run down old houses represent old modes of thinking which may need updating. The fact I suspected it’s haunted apparently suggests old unfinished emotional business.

Unfinished emotional business? Interesting. Wasn’t aware of any, but hey.

Have definitely been feeling stuck in a rut and in need of a change though.

Mist. “To dream that you are caught in a mist, indicates that there is some confusion and uncertainty in your waking life.”

Well, I’m fairly certain I need to make changes, but I’m deeply uncertain as to what.

Cat Nun. “To see nuns in your dream, signifies purity, chastity and obedience. It also indicates that you need to live up to the vows and promises you have made.” “The cat could indicate that someone is being deceitful or treacherous toward you.”

Now this is interesting. I have been pretty chaste of late – my own choice until the gym works its wonders. And I’m a fairly asexual guy most of the time anyway unless I have unexpectedly ended up with someone. But the deceitful aspect is interesting. Maybe this is not the correct path for me?

To see an archbishop in your dream, suggests that someone has power over you and are making you do things that you do not necessarily want to do. Alternatively, you are feeling confined or restricted.

To see a preacher in your dream, represents a harsh personal lesson that you need to learn. You may be harboring feelings of guilt and self-punishment. Stop being so hard on yourself.

Of course, I didn’t actually see one of either, they were just a driving factor, but I think their influence is tangible enough. And I suspect here that since the figure is intended for the the old house, the old mode of thinking, the meaning is fairly clear.

So, all in all, my unconscious seems to be saying: lighten up, get laid and change your job to something you won’t be so crushed by.

It wants me to be a rent-boy doesn’t it?

So not gonna happen. I wouldn’t make enough to live.

Now, given my status as a massive Who-er it’s probably not a surprise that some elements of the Time Lord’s adventures would creep in and so that’s what I’m putting down my battles with the forces of evil down to.

Well, that and drinking less. I’m sure avoiding nightly coma is probably helping my unconscious work through a few things.

Now, one such episode involved me battling giant mutant bees invading a country hospital. I was vaguely amused by this one, not only because the rather attractive male nurse who helped me managed to destroy them with a scream through various amplifiers (a la Bonnie Langford) but also because it means that like early Who even my dreams weren’t straying much beyond the home counties.

It was terribly exciting though. Would make a great story.

Another recent one involved me trying to foil the evil machinations of my arch enemy, Anne Diamond.

This, I must admit, puzzled me. To this day I have had no other negative thoughts about the lady whatsoever. But there she was, trying to take over the world and looking fabulous in a power suit.

I even complimented her on her appearance and she thanked me profusely – before going on to chase me through a forest in her high heels whilst trying to blast the crap out of me with a laser gun.

All I’ll say is my nocturnal life is much more interesting (and gayer) than my waking one.

But I recognise this, and I chastise myself for it frequently, generally allowing myself to spiral as a result into a cycle of self-irritation and loathing that is so typical of my particular brand of inexplicable fuck-wittery.

Now my routine of a morning usually consists of rising, wondering if the cat wants feeding yet, realising we don’t have a cat, getting dressed, cleaning teeth, checking emails/Facebook and then reluctantly sloping off for the bus.

Friday I must have done all of this as usual, but since I rose late and hadn’t really woken up my reluctant sloping for the bus took on a more urgent pace when I saw the 133 waiting at the bus stop and decided to go for it, power-mincing my way with extreme haste towards the hated omnibus.

So quite how I ended up on the 159 I really have no idea.

I can only assume I was more tired than I thought. It was only two stops down – I think between Hazell Dean and Boy Krazy – that I heard the words “Marble Arch” announced and found myself wondering why my bus thought it was headed in that direction.

Three stops later it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I was wrong and the bus was right.

A slight blip of irritation tried to attract my attention but I think I was too tired even for that and it drowned, unloved, in a sea of high-camp nonsense. Instead I just thought “meh”, settled down, and decided to enjoy the change of scenery.

Oddly, not only was the central line practically deserted when I joined to correct my course, but having gone so far out of my way I still somehow managed to arrive at work earlier than normal. And I felt oddly invigorated by seeing a different set of buildings glide past for a change.

So there we are. Clearly I’m mellowing in my old age.

This Friday I’m going to see if I can get to work via Porthmadoc. Wish me luck!

Truth is I managed, during a state of mild inebriation, to sprain my ankle rather unpleasantly way back in August. This was following a terribly entertaining afternoon spent at the Ben and Jerry’s festival on Clapham Common – an event which was officially about seeing the Human League (aka the Holy Trinity) but ended up being more about the Merry-Go-Round.

But anyway, after a few jars at the Two Brewers I headed off home thinking “it’s a Sunday, school night, best get a good night’s sleep in”. I then proceeded to bolt across the road, trip over a crossing-slab, vault into the oncoming traffic and then out of it again, crunching things unpleasantly as I went.

Seriously I was like an action-hero.

A drunk and slightly crap action hero.

But after a couple of days of no-movement, the doctor still refused me Physio and so I had to get better slowly under my own steam. And it’s been mostly fine since then; a bit throbby once the sadist has had his wicked way at the gym, mind, but otherwise fine.

Until the current cold snap. And by God it’s irksome at the moment. It starts to ache on exposure to the cold and barely lets up for ages. I’ve gone from being an action hero to the sort of ancient army sort who copped a bullet in the Crimean war and finds it always flares up in the cold and damp.

Someone fetch me some tweed. And a walking stick.

And a comedy moustache…

As you might tell from the name it’s one which caters for pop-lovers of all ages, split into a more serious indie room and a more unashamedly chart/cheese sound in the other.

So, guess which room I spent most of my Saturday night in this weekend, huh?

All was marvellous. The set was a bit toothless to start but from the moment friend Helen demanded the Pet Shop Boys’ Go West things improved enormously.

Admittedly there was a wobbly section when a sequence of 2 Unlimited, Scatman John and Cotton Eyed Joe arrived (and I suddenly realised that dance music of that era was precisely why Britpop arose) but on the whole it was a fantastic night.

Aside from… well, the DJ himself. I’ve not encountered this phenomenon before in clubs – perhaps you have – but he did seem to love the sound of his own voice. Every now and then he’d talk over the music just when we were enjoying it the most and tell us the most unnecessary things.

Things like “This is Poptastic on a Saturday night” (we knew), “lots of pop classics still to come” (we had hoped) and “if you’ve got a request come over to the DJ booth” (well, there’s a relief: my psychic projection is a little rusty) and “if I’ve got it, I’ll play it” (well, that’s just excuses).

Basically I do think DJs shouldn’t talk to their audience by microphone. It’s invariably vapid stuff at best and just gets in the way of the tunes. I suppose he, like many of us who’ve done it, suffers from the vague awareness that he’s not really a DJ but more of a glorified CD changer and feels the need to build up his part.

But frankly the urge to dash over there and ask if he could give us “Shut the Fuck Up” by “the Poptastic DJ” was somewhat overwhelming. But since he was otherwise rather good (aside from three, count em three, Britney tracks in an hour and the Steps version of “Better the Devil You Know”) maybe that would have been a little bit churlish.

All good fun, anyhow. I can heartily recommend it as a night out if you’re up that way, and it certainly provided the kind of abs workout I haven’t had in a long while.

I really need to club more often.

What I’m finding most amusing is the fact that despite the strike, the Northern Line is operating at optimum levels – a complete contrast to its usual lacklustre service.

Amazing that it takes the entire shut-down of the rest of the network to make the Northern Line look good, isn’t it?

For one thing I’d ban pushchairs on commuter buses (or certainly ones over a certain size). Watching people trying to squeeze onto an already packed bus with one and the resultant upheaval it causes all existing passengers makes you wonder why people think it’s a good idea.

I would almost certainly make a maximum limit of two pushchairs at all other times too.

But then there’s other little niggles. People whose overall width is over that of a standard seat would start having to pay an additional obesity charge for their tickets since they cause so much discomfort to those people nearly crammed in by their backsides.

I would make it acceptable for passengers to begin kicking in the shin anyone whose mobile phone conversation goes over two minutes, said kicking to continue until termination of the call.

And people who put their bags on free seats would be allowed to be slapped by anyone wishing to take the spot, and then – if said bag-owner grumbles about having to move it – the prospective sitee would be perfectly within their rights to stab the antisocial bastard in the eye with a biro.

Sensible and fair policies I think you’ll agree.

Not only was I temporarily sat next to by someone who was the spitting image of Rob Shearman – noted author and Doctor Who writer extraordinaire, responsible for “Dalek” amongst other works – but the bus was otherwise relatively empty and the streets were clear and the journey through London Bridge and Bank remarkably swift.

So I was vaguely amused to discover that the front page of lacklustre free-mag City AM proclaimed the words “G20: City Under Siege”.

Okay, it may all kick off later on but at the moment it’s all oddly quiet and the main difference is an increase in the wearing of denim and Converse.

Update 1201: Young Mark headed out about lunchtime and found a fairly peaceful protest down Moorgate. One of the protesters was wielding a banner stating “Resistance is Fertile” which I think is a marvellous sentiment.

Moorgate Protest

Update 1451: Okay… that was a bit underwhelming. Just went for my lunchtime PowerMince and found distressing scenes of peace and quiet everywhere.

A few more police, admittedly, and a few closed stores, but the streets comparatively empty. Even Liverpool Street, where earlier the UBS building was besieged with protesters, had reverted to the sort of levels of population you’d expect in the dead of night. And the Climate Camp at Bishopsgate seemed terribly good humoured.

Yet still the Evening Standard proclaims in big bold letters: “Anarchists in Battle for the City”.

Er… not really, guys. The most terrifying spectacle I saw was a rather ill-dressed young man whose skin had the colour and texture of a dollop of B&Q emulsion.

I couldn’t even claim man-flu, for God’s sake.

And then, suddenly, it stopped. A slight sore throat reared its head in February but I think that was excessive central heating dryness as it vanished in an hour or so. Other than that I’ve been fit as a fiddle for about three months – even being stuck in a wet forest in Suffolk with three people sniffling and coughing around me didn’t cause anything.

And yet Friday morning one of them hit me and has been developing apace all weekend. The application of Tyrozets in quantity has seen off the throat but my sinuses – always the problem factor – have been dreadful for three days now.

Having today made it to a decent pharmacy, the big guns have been broken out drugswise but I still throb and snuffle and ooze unpleasantly in the nasal region.

The worst thing is that I have to be in work because I’m training. I’m setting up the training room today, and running the course for the next three days.

Great timing, cold. Great timing indeed…

Needless to say, once I’d got access to my cash again I opened a new account with First Direct (in fact I have opened several over time) and manually transferred funds and direct debits etc over to it.

The time has now come to finally close off the old Abbey accounts and I took great pleasure the other week in closing down the savings account. The current account I will do in person tomorrow, but the savings I could do over the phone so I did.

And yesterday I not only recieved confirmation of the closure, but also a cheque for calculated interest which I wasn’t expecting.

What delights me, however, is the fact that – given the account’s been empty for the best part of a year – the cheque cost them more to process and send than its value: £0.09.

The flatmate has told me that I absolutely must deposit it, too. As Abbey aren’t a clearing bank the transaction should cost them about £0.80 on top of what they’ve already lost.

It’s a small and petty piece of revenge I know, but to cost them money for a bit is an opportunity I feel obliged to make the most of.