Goat Notes

My brain needs a cooling fan.

The overclocking last night was ridiculous.  First I had to set up Kal Torak so that I could trip him with a Heath Robinson device and stake him with a tent-peg - having concluded, I think correctly, that the Prophecy's preferred solution of dinging away at him with a big sword was not going to end well.  Being myself rather than Garion in the dream, I felt about the Prophecy pretty much the way I normally do about politicians, missionaries, and other salesmen.  But I did the job!  Miffed, the dead god proceeded to haunt a bottle of handwash for a bit before dissipating in a poot of pique.

Was that enough for one night?  No.  Next, my boss complained that Norfolk had gone missing just when she needed to attend a conference there.  So I was sent on an urgent mission to locate it, in a London turned critically non-Euclidean, in the general vicinity of the Archway Road.

It appeared to have been nicked, and my amateur detective activities were ultimately unproductive.  I think this is why I later found myself employed as a rookie policeman, partnered for unspecified reasons with DCI Gene Hunt. This actually turned out to mean that I was doing all the patrolling and tussling inconclusively with minor villains, while the Guv - whose toughness, presumably, was already such as to need no further exercise - busied himself with the more important duty of blagging many bagfuls of Indian takeaway on expenses.  As we bickered about this matter on the way back to the nick, we ran into an unsmiling set of top brass, and an accountant who wished urgent details of the £8K of payouts made that year to a certain high-value informant by the name of Brinjal Bhaji.

At which point I was suspended from the dream force, and woke up sweating like a perspiring like a bad 'un.  Luckily, there was ample time to scribble before I got off to work.  Eleven hours ahead of me today.  On the other hand, Friday off.

540 words.  I often complain at the sketchy or absent family connections of so many SFnal protagonists.  Then I try to write according to my own rede, and am reminded forcibly of why so many authors choose not to...