Last night's stupid dream: We sat in dread awaiting the first sign of the coming apocalypse. Perhaps an airborne ember that births a raging, biblical firestorm, or the twinkle of new star that heralds a world-ending meteor. Nope. It was Bob Mortimer holding a plate piled high with scrambled eggs.

(I was looking through a book of Gustave Doré's engravings for Milton's Paradise Lost and Dante's Divine Comedy before bed. Although that doesn't explain Bob Mortimer's appearance)