Left a good job in the city

Where does snot come from?!? I’ve got pocketfuls of it, carefully wrapped up in hankies. One bonus of being sick is the feverish dreams you have, fuelled by overdoses of Lemsip and vitamin C. I thrash about in the bed, getting all sweaty, which isn’t half as much fun as it sounds, while my brain churns out seemingly wonderful ideas and visions. The problem with these nocturnal strokes of genius is that it’s impossible to remember them in the morning. I am left with a vague memory of something great that I lost, like a missed chance for a snog. Like that wasted opportunity it seems to become more significant the more I try to remember what it was. I bet Edison kept a pad and pencil by his bed. And a box of matches for his candle, come to think of it, at least until that one great sweaty rush of inspiration...