It's been an exhausting week at work, so I was really looking forward to a lengthy lie-in this morning. Alas, it was not to be so. At 8am, through my drug-induced sleep (and midway through a rather lovely Dr Who dream), I heard knocking at the front door. After the requisite search for something - anything - to wear I managed to make it downstairs to greet an obscenely cheerful and perky postman. I squinted at the piece of paper he handed me, scrawled something resembling my name and was handed a Special Delivery envelope in return. Hurrah! Russian visa!
Try as I might I didn't get back to the same, er, interesting point in the dream. Bah. Still, got to watch the next episode on TV this evening with a decent glass of pinot grigio. Chris phoned afterwards and we both cried down the phone about how sweet an ending it was. She's pregnant and therefore hugely hormonal; I'm just an emotional geek with a huge crush on David Tennant. No, neither of us has a life.
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