In a dream I saw my own obituary in the newspaper and my first thought was: I should check the date! It was September 6th, 2044 — that would mean I’d be dead at the age of 86.5 years, statistically more or less exactly the average life expectancy for a white male in the west. You’d think the unconscious could come up with something more interesting, but I ought to be pleased that the date was not next month. That would make for a tense few weeks!
I wish I’d had a look at what it said in the obituary. I must have done something interesting enough in the next ten thousand days to warrant one. What could it be?
I think I’ll have butter on my toast this morning rather than low fat spread.