What an anticlimax. Today is the Roquefort Files' birthday. Now usually this would be a minor cause for celebration (survived another year and all that), but today was screwed even before it began.

I woke up from ('regained full consciousness' would be a better description - I slept so badly that 'sleep' seems an overenthusiastic way to describe it) an excessively bizarre dream about trying to secure the Labour leadership for Gordon Brown. Fair enough, we had watched a video of The Deal last night, but for God's sake: dreaming about a Labour leadership contest? That shit is fucked.

Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed, feeling pretty dreadful. It's the whole 'almost ill' thing again. I can't put my finger on any explicit symptoms - I just feel a bit off. This wouldn't ordinarily be too bad; normally we get a day off work on our birthdays, but because of my fondness for extended trips to the colonies I need to carry mine over until Christmas, to cover the office's seasonal shutdown.

Gah.

Oh well, my birthday now coincides with that of Christ. Coincidence? I think not.