No, really, all of last night. On the plus side, my disgusting head cold seems to have retreated into whatever hell it crawled out of. At least for the moment.
Fevers make me feel like I'm the worst kind of high: sort of paranoid and prone to weird, tangential thoughts ("a flower…bees…bee monster…Nicholas Cage, there's a sad case"). They also make everything around me seem sort of tragic and grotesque and monstrous. Luckily, for most of the night (at bedtime and then again all five thousand times I woke up) I happened to be reading a passage in Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall about a woman being burned at the stake.
I had several conversations which I no longer remember, and I'm really sorry, friends, if I started rambling about The Wicker Man, which isn't even a movie I've seen. Let's just all be glad I'm the only one who had to witness my dreams.