Cats and hats

Today I collected the painting of the crucified cat from the framers. I only realised once it was back at the office and being viewed with bemused disgust by everyone else that it had a fairly close match to our corporate colour scheme. I'm not surely that I can sneak a vaguely disturbing depiction of feline sacrifice onto the wall without anyone noticing. But it's worth a go.

This morning I woke from a terrifying dream, one so frightening that I sat bolt upright in bed. The only detail I could remember was that I was wearing a Panama hat, which doesn't strike me as anything to be scared of. Maybe it's symptoms of withdrawal from the coffee. Or perhaps it's the onset of hat-o-phobia. (I await earnestly for somebody to inform me of the correct term for the fear of headgear.)

This did not distract me too much as I went to work: I had two jokes written about Hong Kong before I was even at the office, so things were somewhat productive, even if I spent most of the time today that I'd put aside for Important Projects working on fixing lots of little minor problems instead. However, without the sense of achievement that completing Important Things would provide, I felt terribly exhausted, so at the end of the day I shuffled home with my framed painting, and spent the evening spread out over the sofa, rather than engaged in productive exercise. Oh, for the days when I'd spend the evening raging on cheap beer, and then all of Saturday regretting it.

Or, indeed, perhaps not. I'm quite content to lie on the floor and listen to Radio 4 - maybe I'm just on the wrong time zone, and come 6pm in London, I'll be out on the lash.

Which would be jolly inconvenient, as that means staying up until 2 in the morning here before I even make a start on the booze...