Sundays are for waking up in a cold sweat at 6AM. It never ends. The monkey of life will never be off your back. You’re trapped. You try to get up, and your legs don’t work. You fall down, but don’t feel anything. What hell is this, you wonder in horror.
Somwhere above you, something moves. You lie frozen in place as it creeps closer, and closer, and closer. Then BOOM, it’s right on top of you. It’s your mum, but her face is obscured by Dagoth Ur’s mask from Morrowind. She takes one look at you and gasps. “Oh no,” she screams. “You’ve caught the disease!” Tears in her eyes, she brings you a mirror. Adrian Edmondson stares out of it, winking cheekily. “It’s twenty-twenty-smegging-six,” your mum howls. “Why hasn’t he gone away yet!”
