Muggy, fuggy

My head feels as though someone has piped in a load of plasticine and followed it up with some glue and treacle for good measure.

My arms are heavy and my shoulders ache so much that I could hardly lift them to wash my hair last night (due to strenuous kung fu). Echoes of my tiredness at its worst sneaked back into my not-very-distant memory, making me glad that those cruel days and nights are now fewer.

So, at least I know what has caused the arm ache. But, as for my head... There are several possibilities. It could be the weather, the warm, humid, soporific, slow dance of weather that has sat around my being today. Or it could be a poor night's sleep, not helped by said weather. I need a storm. I want a mad, lashing, crashing storm. One where the sky is split once then twice, then explodes again into a furious mass of fiery energy. It all seems pent up now. Waiting.

Another possibility for the dullness in my head could be as per my last post – a sort of 'it's my birthday in a few days... hmmm' kind of thing. What can I do about that? Not a lot. I don't care for ages. They don't bother me. I say something along the lines of 'Oh, I'm 38' now and then, but what does it really matter?

The third reason is a bit odd but I had a dream that I was walking through a particularly rough part of London. I had a gun with me. I was a spy, I think. I can recall the weight of metal in my hand, the coolness of the steel, the rough pattern moulded into the part you hold. In the dream, the gun was like part of my hand, it would save me from the baddies. And so I went, at an exhausting pace, from corridor to room, hiding under tables, in cupboards, behind walls, like some kind of James Bond. When I woke, I felt as though I had been living it. It was like a film.

Maybe it's all of the above and once the storm has come and gone, taking with it any silly birthday woes, and I've had a better night's sleep, the fug will lift, leaving behind it a warm, fresh sensation, like when you stand in torrential rain in the tropics (or a stupidly hot London), smelling the earth and air, and are able to breathe again.