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I had a little lie-down on the sofa about 4pm this afternoon, just to rest my eyes for a couple minutes. We'd had an exhausting day up till then, strolling to Soho for an early brunch and then catching a matinée of Ratatouille.

I was thinking about all kinds of things ... Paris, home cooking, peasant food, rascally rodents. I wondered if Gypsy and Cab tried to cook things, like Remy did, when we weren't around. I started thinking about Monday night's writing workshop.

I pulled my laptop off the coffee table and placed in on my lap and wrote the most wonderful stories ... giggling at my wit and occasionally tearing up with nostalgia as I typed.

Well, it seems I dreamt that last paragraph. At 7:30, Larry came into the living room and asked me if I was alright. The laptop was still on the coffee table and my glasses had been removed and were resting on top of the keyboard. I was curled up on my side, covered by a quilt (did the cats put that on me>), and hugging a cushion.

"Do you want to go to Soho and watch the rugby?" he asked.

I murmured something about not being able to leave the flat, since I was convinced that a wintry blizzard had come during my nap and there was at least two feet of snow on the ground, with more to come.

What the hell did they put in my popcorn?

And how do I replay all those wondrous images that were floating around on the edge of my subconscious just a few short hours ago?