Get out of my subconscious, Bjorn.

I feel like I'm coming down with something - even repeated singing along to 'Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered' isn't perking me up - which would be annoying considering I'm going to Cambridge tomorrow and have been in the bloom of health so far this vacation. Being ill in Cambridge sucks; my room is either too cold (when I've had the window open at some point in the past week) or eye-dryingly warm (when I turn on the heater, which is directly behind the head of my bed), and getting food requires a major active effort. Still, I'm looking forward to going; a change of air and a few Innocent smoothies will do wonders.

I do wonder, tangentially, why bed technology hasn't progressed further; beds are amazing, but frankly they're still suboptimal. I want one with head- and footrests that tilt up and down (I know Hans has a hospital-issue one, but why aren't all of them like that?), and I should be able to set its temperature without having to resort to barbarisms like adding or subtracting blankets. Possibly there should be a massage feature.

Dream in the early hours of the morning: I am on a school trip that never seems to get out of the airport. We have been given an assignment to write a poem about Björn Borg, and I'm taking it quite seriously. The poem I finally write is very good, but our teacher doesn't ask us to hand them in; instead we have to pick one (mine doesn't get picked) and do it as a song and dance. The musical performance turns out great too, but it's still a bitter disappointment.