I had a dream last night.
OK, it was more like a nightmare.

I was married to Jessica Simpson.

Then, while she was off being a brain surgeon, her little skank sister Ashley confessed that she also loved me.

I woke before she could put her tongue in my ear.

Should I read anything into this?

Dreams don't mean anything, right?

Right?

Right?!

I’m exhausted, but I’m too scared to go to sleep.

It’s like I've turned into one of those doomed kids from Nightmare On Elm Street.

I’m scared that this time I’m going to go to sleep and dream I’m married to Paris Hilton.

Aaaarrrgggghhh!

Major milestone on the road to recovery.

I have learned to make custard that actually turns to custard. I no longer need my wife.

This also means I have ticked off yet another New Year’s Resolution.

Look at me go! Living life on the edge...

Oh, and in other Resolution-related news: the Taiwanese teenager that I allegedly help with Engrish tuition has just got her Sixth Form English results back.

She passed everything. Even the poetry bit that she was convinced she had failed. And she got a Merit in another section and an Excellence (the highest grade) for the one about that Jane Austen chick what wrote Pride & Prejudice, which is apparently loosely based on Bridget Jones’ Diary. Pshh, couldn’t Ms Austen have come up with something a little more original?

Anyway, back to my point: I’m going to ignore the fact that she is an excellent student and claim all the credit for her great result for myself.

Yay. I’m great.

Time to put up my fees...