I was at work, putting books into boxes to be returned to where they came from. And then, my boss Charlie showed up (which was odd, as it was clearly past the time she'd have left), and reminded me of five more things I ought to do. I thought to myself that this seemed oddly dreamlike, but hey, this happens. So, I ended up leaving work at eleven, which turned into eleven-forty, because the buses just run like that sometimes. And I couldn't get hold of Sara, and I knew she was worried, but there was nothing I could do but wait for the bus. So I found myself waiting at some sort of outside bar, drinking a White Russian and trying to figure out whether I was justified in leaving without paying if the bartender left me waiting for five minutes. I called Sara again, to get her opinion on the matter, and she wanted to know why I was getting home so late, and I honestly couldn't explain why this particular work-day had been twelve hours long.
And then I woke up, fifteen minutes ago, to find out that I'd somehow dreamed the whole unnecessarily-twelve-hour-workday in the twenty minutes since I'd turned off my alarm.
Great. My subconscious thinks it's Jonathan Swift. A very trite Jonathan Swift.
Except for the White Russian bit. Alcohol doesn't happen very often in my life.