Waking up after two weeks of hibernation, I'm surveying the damage.
I looked in the mirror. I have aged 50 years: it's dirty and I'm not going to clean it in case I discover that I've aged 100 years instead!
In one last (I hope) unwitting idiocy, I left the handbrake off when I went to the Post Office to collect the unknown things I'd sent away for while delirious with fever the last couple of weeks. I looked with incomprehension at the gearstick for a while before pulling on the handbrake just before I whacked into the car parked just down the hill.
My mind is still playing funny tricks: I am misreading the newspaper (what's all this about Indian bowels? I wondered while reading an article about the bowling tournament in Delhi), but that's been quite entertaining so far.
While watching a daytime TV programme about property, I suddenly realised what makes our current political leaders so unnerving.
They are Estate Agents! Osborne, Cameron, Clegg and Miliband of Middle-England would like to present an undervalued and oversold version of Maison UK.
Can't you just smell the Duty Free aftershave? (almost said Off Licence there).
And the shirts ironed by Mum (wife won't do it, as she's a professional herself).
And the pasty from the Independent Bakers for lunch, washed down with a can of Irn Bru (the funky edge).
Oh dear, I can't bear it!