DO NOT BEND

said the big black writing on the soggy, rain-splattered BENT envelope which arrived in the post today.

It's okay. It's only my bloomin' degree certificate. No biggy.
(Only the degree certificate that has taken me thousands of pounds and several years of study to get.)

So there you have it. Rachelor of Cart Openings (or something)

I had weird dreams last night. Loads of them. I must have woken up several times.
In one I had just given birth to triplets (guess who watched Call the Midwife on Sunday?), I was in my mother's house and the babies had been taken away from me for two days and bottle fed because I was too weak to look after them. I was really sad and fed up of just lying around.
In another dream we were thinking about visiting my sister and her family in Australia - there was some way we could get there without travelling or spending loads of money - and I got to see into her world before we arrived. She was hanging out playing badminton in her sitting room with Ringo Starr, and some nameless, faceless famous blonde actress was swanning around in the background. Everyone looked really rich and I knew I was going to feel out-of-place.
Then I was watching a film being made and I got so absorbed that I ignored all the people I was with (whoever they were) and drifted closer and closer to the set on my own, dropped to my knees and sat, watching silently. I was totally mesmerised and realised then that I wanted to write films. There were skinny, floaty women and the director had decided on using lots of yellow and I thought I probably would have fun watching my words come alive like that.

I've forgotten what the other dreams were...

I sent my bereavement poem to Ether Books mobile publishing (app) and they published it today. It's not great poetry but the sentiment is very real and there are times when that is the most important thing.

Whoops - I've just remembered a neglected teabag in a cup of hot water...