I miss my dreams.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, I used to have the most magnificently vivid dreams. They ranged from the downright bizzare to the terrifyingly horrific and occasionally took a detour through the strangely realistic (you know, the ones where you wake up not sure if you were dreaming or whether you really had been downstairs in the kitchen watching the kettle boil. Being stared at by a penguin). They all had one thing in common though.
They entertained me hugely.
Maybe the events of the last year have affected my sleep patterns to such an extent that the part of my subconscious that deals with dreams has decided that my life is mental enough in reality and it just can't compete.
Its current strategy is to wait until I'm just about to drop off to sleep and then bombard me with the minutiae of the day/week/month. This means that on occasion I am awake and considering in great detail the pros and cons of changing the route I drive to work (seriously) in the wee small hours. 3am blog posts are a distinct possibility.
I'll be happy when the penguin is back.