Recovering from a near fatal illness...or at least it felt that bad. Aching all over, hot and cold, dizzy. My brain is scrambled. I woke in the middle of the night with the strange idea that my family had tied me down so that my movement was restricted. I experience bizarre dreams about Morrissey and the straaange people that I have met on the net. (I even have a vague dream about Ken and Deirdre Barlow on the set of Coronation Street.) Thankfully, I have regained the ability to type, and after repeating over and over in my head, ‘Must-get-to-computer! Must find out what is happening in the world of Morrissey!’, I manage to stagger down the stairs.

I am unwilling to play Morrissey, in case I associate him with the terrible memory of being ill.

To add to this vast horridness, my Quarry CD is ruined- it now skips half of ‘Come back to Camden’, and has turned ‘I’m not sorry’ into something which sounds suspiciously like the kind of song you would find on a CD entitled ‘heavy trance classics’...