Alien dream

On Saturday night I had a very strange dream. I was in something resembling a large hotel and in one of the rooms, under lock and key, was an immensely tall being from another planet. It looked like a human female, but it had a wedge-shaped black head.

The manager came with a message. Apparently the being had asked for me, saying I was the only one it/she could talk to. When I was let into the room, the 'head' was gone - it had been an oddly-shaped space helmet - and I was looking at a ten foot tall blonde woman, pretty but not overly so. Not the creature of male fantasies in computer games. No big boobs, no make-up.

I can't remember the conversation, but towards the end of it the female alien asked how old I was. I told her and returned the question. "24," she replied. "I wish I was 24 again," I said, whereupon she touched me with a long index finger and said, blithely, "24!" It turned out that their species could cure all illness and even reverse ageing just by touch.

Then she said she had to go and led me outside. All I could see was a pile of what looked like empty white pizza boxes in a sunken yard behind the hotel. The heap shimmered and a door opened and two people in cabin crew uniform - one, a woman dressed in grey - were there to usher in the alien visitor. I waved her off, then suddenly cried, "Can I come?" and launched myself towards the spacecraft.

Then I woke up. Got up. Looked in the mirror with hope in my heart... But no, I was not 24 again. Damn dreams!

Ouch!!!

"How have you been since saw you two weeks ago?" enquired the dentist.

"Ten days of pain," I reported grimly. He looked a bit non-plussed.

He started drilling away, removing the old filling. He hadn't given me a jab because the nerves were dead. Or were they? He rodded out two roots, the ones that had been infected, then, when he stuck the metal probe into the third root, the one the healthy nerve had been taken from, I hit the roof.

"That shouldn't happen," said the dentist. He filled a syringe with anaesthetic and stuck it up the root. If I could have spoken, I'd have said some extremely rude words. It hurt. In fact, I quivered and yelled so much that the dental nurse sweetly took hold of my hand.

"Oh dear. This is very rare. I've only known two or three other cases. There must be a piece of nerve left behind and the anaesthetic hasn't got through. I'll have to give you a jab at the other end of the tooth," I was told. "This might be a bit uncomfortable." It was nothing compared to the jabs in the nerve.

Hardly giving the novocaine a chance to work, he recommenced rodding the drains, to the accompaniment of more ouches. I dug my nails so hard into the back of my other hand that I still have the impressions.

When he'd finished, he warned me that I might experience even more pain than after the last visit. Oh dear. At least I could stomach a Nurofen or two a fortnight ago, but since then, and probably because of the Nurofen, my stomach ulcers have flared up again, so I'll have to rely on Paracetamol, hot water bottles and arnica tablets.

Or maybe - please, Guardian Angel, are you listening up there? - it won't hurt at all.

Clairvoyance strikes again!

In my entry on 21st April, I said I wished someone would get married so I could wear my nice new secondhand clothes. Well, my wish has come true! It must be six years at least since I attended the wedding of a friend's son, and twelve years since the last family wedding, when my sister wed husband No. 3! But this morning a fat, stiff envelope arrived containing an invitation to my cousin's daughter's wedding on July 18th. It's in Dorset, but maybe I can bum a lift off my London cousin. I'm certainly not going to miss it, though I think my black hat might be a tad funereal. I feel another trip to the charity shop coming on...

Hair and fur

When I ask for a trim, I certainly get it! When I got up today, my hair was down to just between my shoulderblades at its longest point. Then Andrea from down the road got to work and suddenly I was up to my hocks in ginger tresses. Then I washed it and... it's gone curly! (Pic taken with my 3 megapixel Nokia which doesn't do the wrinkles any justice.)



Here's what Flad thought of my new look. No seconds of Whiskas for him!

Literary Agents

Just heard back from Caroline Sheldon. She promises to read my book within the next two weeks. I emailed back saying, "Take your time," as I don't want her to think I'm hassling her! I really took to her and would love to work with her, so I am crossing fingers, toes and even eyes!

Bingo wings

Actually, I prefer the term 'bat wings'. In the days when I groomed ponies, played netball and rode bikes (so many decades ago that I've lost count), I was proud of my rock-hard biceps. I never thought that one day they would melt and migrate to hang like soggy dough under my arms, swinging when I moved. Neither did I think the day would come when I'd have to chuck out all my strappy t-shirts and sleeveless dresses for fear of causing members of the public to part company with their breakfast.

But alas, it has happened, so last Monday I went off to the gym to get some advice and was told the best thing I could do was sit on something firm, lower myself over the edge and do backwards press-ups. I found the bath was the ideal piece of equipment for this, as there was no chance of it suddenly skittering backwards and depositing me on the floor. But, in my enthusiasm to melt my too, too solid flesh, I have wrecked my wrists. Not only can I hardly type, I can hardly raise knife and fork to mouth (maybe this was a hidden aspect of the exercise, less food = less flab). As for a full wineglass... forget it. I fear my batwings are here to stay and I may as well practise my nocturnal flying.

Book editing

I am spending the bank holiday working like a dog. I'm editing a manuscript for someone who simply can't write. Almost every comma needs changing and I'm exhausted. I'm being paid £200 and the job has taken 3 days already and I'm not even halfway through. Slave labour, and totally numbing to the creative soul. But... I need the money. Roll on my pension next year!