The inside workings of my head

Couldn't get to sleep for ages...

... then had a dream about getting tickets for the Wales v Ireland game in two weekends. Have a chat with Brian O'Driscoll, who has suddenly replaced my dog, who dad didn't think had "long to go", also sitting with Gavin Henson in an "Irish" bar on some courtyard/shopping centre. Henson's worried about killing the apparently-ill O'Driscoll, in what is "probably O'Driscoll's last game" (due to illness? who knows...?) and tells me as much as we head off to the Millennium Stadium. When we get there, O'Driscoll's asked us to blag a ticket for his Mum. I come up with a ruse, but the girl at the ticket desk is much amused when Mrs O'Driscoll — a small, very white-haired lady — pops up behind the counter laughing, to reveal that Brian has played this joke on every member of the Welsh team, and they've all been coming up to the ticket desks with various blags.

The bummer of the dream, however, is that I go back to the pub before the game to for a slash. Almost leave my phone behind, then go back for it. But on the way back, I have to go back along some roadworks which have no barriers or protection around them. I'm holding the ticket in my hand, the same way I always do when I go the cinema (for fear of forgetting which pocket it's in). I'm already gutted as I've missed singing Gwlad in the stadium with the crowd (personal ambition), so thinkgs aren't going well, but I have seat C7 (third row, I'm thinking). And then one of these bits of plant equipment knocks it out of my hand, onto the smouldering tarmac! Ruining the ticket completely, as the bit I've recovered falls apart in my hand.

So.... answers on a postcard. Fucked if I know what it means!