Over the last little while, on a few occasions - after a perfectly normal, merry old seven-eightish hour sleep -I have woken to find my clock radio not sitting on the table beside my bed, but on the floor.
Now, unless there's some rogue dwarf squatting in my wardrobe that I'm not yet aware of, the only person the finger can be pointed at is, um, myself.
I don't have any answers and I don't want to think about this too much, otherwise I will think I am crackers. So, to make me feel at home with my crazy sleepself, could someone please out-abnormal me with a better story of sleep adventures?
That would be triff, thanks.
Yours crazily,
kate
*wonders if furniture should be whitewashed and tossed in neighbour's swimming pool*
