2002-12-11 at 12:36 p.m.

I had a very odd dream last night.

I was somehow chosen as the Australian representative at some sort of British Royal Family function. Coronation? Funeral? Jubilee? I have no idea.

I had to wear a big, lacy, pouffy white dress with a big train (not the 'choo-choo' variety) at the back, and more tulle underskirts than should be legal. I also wound up wearing a selection of wigs (a short brown one at one point, and a long blonde one later) and more poxy pink makeup than anyone should be made to wear.

My function at this event was to parade regally through the aisles of spectators (along with a group of similarly dressed girls, all of whom were Brits), arrange ourselves aesthetically throughout the hall, and then dance.

A dance was more 'Macarena' than 'Minuet', by the way.

And I didn't know the steps.

It's odd the way the human brain works. In this dream, my brain was telling me that I didn't know the dance steps, whilst simultaneously inventing the dance steps, and causing the other people in my dream to perform them flawlessly. How the hell does that work?

I've done incredible things while dreaming. I've written piano music, choral music, and even symphonies in my dreams. I've danced like a pro, sung like a star, and probably cured cancer somewhere along the line, too. Of course, as soon as I wake up, all the useful information falls straight out of my head and into the puddle of drool that adorns my pillow every morn.

Stupid uncooperative brain.

(I also met Prince Harry in last night's dream. We shared a 'homie' style handshake. Respect.)

This is what I get for drinking for twelve solid hours prior to sleeping.

I did you all a great disservice the other day. I forgot to mention...