I dreamt last night of comedian David Mitchell. He was seated in a drawing room, a Bunsen burner perched on a stand in front of his face, flaring forcefully upwards in unsteady tongues. He tilted his face directly over the flames for a good second, sat back in his chair, and moaned “aghhh, feelings” in a subdued tone, a tear trickling down his cheek. He repeated this four or five times, agony increasing, “aghhh, feelings”, tears swelling.

In the near foreground stood a tall middle-aged woman in a business suit, slick dyed blonde short hair, observing David’s reactions with detached interest, taking notes on a clipboard.

24 July 2026