EDitorial ± 20-Jul-2006

Back To The Floor

It's thanks to Jerry the plumber that I passed out this morning at 6:15am. Though I did feel decidedly better once I'd hoisted my legs onto the downstairs loo: ah, that sweet mix of blood and oxygen, bring it on.

I say when it drops, oh you gonna feel it
Know that you were doing wrong.
--- Toots And The Maytals, Pressure Drop

Super Mario has been hard at it, refitting the smallest room in the house (up the stairs, take a left). Shiny new bath is in and fully piped up -- lovely -- but, inconveniently, there's no convenience as yet.

[**Warning** this para is not for the squeamish] Meantime, slept fine despite the heat of the night, and gained a glimmer of consciousness when my bladder sent a cry for help to my brain. Was trying to shake a horrible dream about undergoing an operation for, erm, liposuction, which may have taken place on an airplane, naturally enough. Who knows why, but my stomach was open to the elements. As I say, horrible. And I'm really not good with those sort of images. And I really needed a wee.

Can't sleepwalk toodle-oo on the landing, so headed groggily downstairs, that ghastly dream unwinding in my head: yuck. Past wifey doing the penultimate packed lunches and into the spare loo. Hit by a wave of peculiarity and remembered some timely advice about getting my heart level with my head, and to the floor I gratefully sank. Not the best of views with my head near the cat litter and the mini compost brown bin. Two minutes down there did the job, righting my equilibrium afore heading back to bed with a restorative cuppa.

Not that we've been here before:

I am not the plumber's mate.