Where I just wrote down my dreams every day. I think it is safe to say that not a single person would read it. Not even my mum. Hearing about other people's dreams is the absolute pits. However. The other night I dreamt I was looking after Nick Clegg's baby* in a furniture shop**, and I lost it, and I was terrified, and then I found it after ages sitting right in the middle of a huge chair, like a young prince. If I was a very slightly different person, I would say "Make of that what you will" now. That's the other absolute pits. That sort of pseudo-formal "witty" thing really gets me down.
The other night in Oxford my mum said, "Making friends with someone isn't necessarily bonding over shared likes. More often it's bonding over things you both find terrible." Which is true. I think it is safe to say that I am very likely to make friends with someone who would get kitsched out by a dream blog where every post ended with "Make of that what you will." If they hated this hypothetical dream blog as much as me I would probably marry them.
* I don't know if he has a baby
** Woolworths at the Waterfront, "since you ask", which you DON'T.
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