I had a two-hour nap earlier this evening, during which I had a most animated dream. So intense it was, that I bit my upper lip so hard it's bleeding. Backdrop to the dream:

Someone lent me a copy of The Message on Monday. It's a hardback with the paper sleeve still on and honestly I didn't REALLY want to borrow it, but this person brought it to our theology seminar and obviously really wanted someone to borrow it for she probably thought someone really wanted to borrow it so I better bring it. So at the end of the seminar I went, oh, can I borrow that? Looks great. Thanks.

It weighs a ton. The pages are typical bible-thin and I was terrified that I might tear it; the owner of this book does not look like the kind of person who would throw books around, put coffee mugs on top of them or leave them lying about the bathroom floor soaking up the steam, as I would, like.

In this dream, I was in the library, where our seminar takes place. I took the book out of my bag, ready to return it to its owner, and saw that its sleeve was ripped! Whoever did this tried to patch it up, badly, though, with sticky tape applied haphazardly. I knew it was my son. I was fuming. I called his name, once, twice, thrice, raising my voice and getting angrier each time. He was fumbling about behind some book shelf, frightened, trying to hide from his raging lunatic of a mother. I yelled some more, top of my voice. I felt like I could strangle him there and then, if only he shows his face.

Then a voice said:

"Mum, it's been two hours. You asked me to wake you in two hours."

"Huh? What?"

"Are you coming out now? American Idol is on."

"Er... okay... Was I yelling? Did you hear me shout?"

"What are you talking about? Are you drunk?"