The elder statesman, best remembered for his Mr Whippy hair.

My subconscious is HAVING A FRICKEN PARTY. Would you like to come along? Wouldja? Bring a bottle.

Last night I dreamed I was in a lovely, old library of the sort the Georgians used to have – floor to ceiling dark wooden shelves. Little reading tables dotted about with curios on them – it was a private library, not a public one. And me, Nathan off Misfits (yes, not Robert Sheehan, the actor: Nathan) and … get this … Douglas Hurd … were all having a bit of a party. WOO! We were sliding about on those ladders that roll along the shelves. We were cackling. There were cakes.

Douglas Hurd.

Doug. Las. Hurd.

I remember thinking “your hair looks like an ice-cream, Douglas. Like the pale folds of a Mr Whippy, fresh swirled into its cone.”

That wasn’t a sexual thing, btw. I think stuff like that about people/buildings/trees/the pavement, all the time.

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About chiller

Rachel Coldbreath spent 20 years working internationally as a technical specialist on large data collections for law firms, before becoming disabled. She blogs on a variety of topics from the news and politics to gardening and how very annoying it is, being disabled. Habits include drilling holes about 1mm away from where they ought to be, and embarking with great enthusiasm on tasks for which she is neither physically nor intellectually equipped.
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