Can’t say I wasn’t warned about changed sleeping patterns and weird dreams, but even so, things are getting a little odd. I jumped perkily out of bed at 2am – believe me, this never happens – caught up on the Twiki and wrote some very bad fiction. (Yay for first drafts.) Accidently woke J by making too much crinkle-noise pouring myself cornflakes at 4am. He came out to check that I wasn’t rearranging the kitchen cupboards again.

Eventually got back to sleep around 5, knowing I needed to make a teleconference call at 9am. Woke at 8.45 from possibly the worst dream I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some doozies.

A good friend of mine, a musician, had called us all to his apartment for one last party. He lived in a red brick complex on an escarpment, with a beautiful sea view. There were excellent chocolate brownies, as you’d expect, and masses of whipped cream. After we left, this friend of ours intended to commit suicide with sleeping pills and lye.

I became more and more distressed. The rest of our friends supported his decision, and they frowned on me when I tried to remonstrate with him. Crushed by grief and the weight of social opprobrium – literally crushed, in that I was finding it difficult to breathe – I burst into tears and had to be led away.

In the courtyard his black kitten was rolling on her back in the sunshine. I wondered if he’d arranged for someone to look after her. She had a white whisker.

When I woke up, I was still crying. I only just mopped up in time to make the call.

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