Rene and Georgette Margritte with their dog after the War

This week has felt a little surreal. In a muted real life Magritte way, as apposed to a full blown Dali episode. Spent last Sunday listening to the other half expel wastage from both ends, through no fault of his own except for getting in the way of a few vicious virus particles. I think my present wings of steel did not allow any of the buggers in, instead I have been content to whet my appetite with a little dizziness and a sense that all is not what it seems.

Somehow through it all I managed to finish reports, turn in to work and daydream about tweed and melting circular libraries. This week, amazingly the house has not fallen through, despite the cat monsoons, and I have held one or two conversations that have made sense. I blame the fact I am reading again, that and Lars Von Trier.

I have been reading a few blogs lately, unfortunately for my weary mind, from people who are well educated. And for the first time in a long time I have been feeling the necessity to reach for my dictionary, and it has made me nostalgic for a time when the dictionary was my favourite ablution companion.

I am going to get some extra sleep, and immerse myself in something wholesome. Perhaps make some soup from my homegrown lettuce. Tomorrow I am planning on making some sense.