Well, it must be a momentous occasion. I dreamt that my dick had fallen off last night - apparently a sign of anxiety (no kidding!) although in that dream logic state, I was more concerned with a) covering up the lost member as it lay on the bedroom floor because a visitor was due to visit, b) how my jeans would look without the standard man bulge and c) staining the quilt with the wound site - and emasculated may be the theme of the coming days and weeks. I also dreamt (separately) that the sink had been removed from the kitchen and the cooker stripped back to its bare bones by the landlord. Although there isn't an interpretation of 'emasculation' on this crappy US website, the following does relate to 'amputation':
"To dream that your limbs are amputated signifies abandoned talents and serious, permanent losses. It indicates your feelings of frustration, powerlessness and helplessness. Sometimes amputation may also represent a situation that you have been ignoring and has finally reached a crisis point. In particular, to dream that your arms are amputated suggests that you lack motivation. Dreaming that you legs are amputated suggests that you are being limited. Something or someone is hindering your progress and where you want to go in life."
I'm sure that the anxiety has nothing to do with our trip to Bavaria this evening, though I do fear that a win may well be beyond us. Mancini is talking up our chances. What else can he do? Though looking at the stats on Munich, I think caution will be needed at the very least. They've won 6 out of their 7 matches, scoring 21 goals in the process, and their keeper hasn't conceded in 838 minutes. Jesus. I hope I will be forgiven by the City faithful (and I am very appreciative of the nice little write-up on this blog from The Mancunian Way. Cheers!) as much for not having attended any matches (home or away) for two seasons now as for living in London, and it's a fairly safe bet that I won't be in Germany tonight either, so I'm not really sure how or if I'm going to watch the match. Of course it's not on terrestrial telly, and doubtless the Rags will be favoured in the public house should I venture up there with the gas and leccy money for a couple of pints. So it may be good old 5 Live yet again.
Neither are my worries excessively related to the sodding global economic crisis, Operation Twist and all that bollocks. Every plunge is answered with a rally. It's worse than the Daily Mail health advice, isn't it? On that subject, age of course is another matter. Fresh (if that's the word) from my mother's 70th birthday celebrations in Morda over the weekend, the inevitable musings on death and general health naturally intrude, though I nonetheless feel that it's not too late to turn things around. Really.
No. More pressing to me is that old chestnut: work. Tomorrow, after having a glorious 6 days out of the thick of it, it's back to yet another re-structure announcement. A further redundancy is definitely on the cards - given the short length of service I have managed to squeeze under my bulging belt, and I have to wait and see until perhaps 4 o'clock tomorrow afternoon to find out what will happen to me. CV has been sharpened in preparation and I have been perusing the jobs pages of FM World for a little while, but it's not the same without the incentive of being on the dole to push one on.
Come on City! Come on me!