Some of the joys of having a stinking cold and fever are the forced eight hours or more in bed, copious amounts of drugs, and the orders to leave Our Man alone to all embedded agents. As a result, Our Man has been having a vivid recurring dream that he can actually recall (for the first time since he came to this neck of the woods). Sadly, he goes to bed hoping Diana Rigg (pic lifted from here) will make a brief appearance when in fact he keeps ending up in a smoky bar ala Bladerunner, but with a far less exotic cast. It's the sub-editors bench at the Derby Evening Telegraph who keep interrupting Our Man to tell him about somebody or other is on his deathbed. And Our Man NEVER GETS TO SIP HIS BEER standing invitingly on the bar.
Night, night all. (This message was set on autopilot, so Our Man should be just about to order his beer as the chief-sub leans over, with fag in hand; "Hey, you know Baz had cancer? Well, the editor needs three pars for page 2...")