On being unfit for purpose

[desperance]

Never mind how the dream started (computer-stuff largely, and vanishing capabilities, lost work, all of that): it ended with a knock on the door, and when we answered it there were strangers outsides. Barry took advantage of this to slip out and away, so my friend went after him; which left me with three huge smiling men who gently and irresistibly muscled their way inside and simply took possession of my house. At which point I understood that this was the latest burglary/house-stripping technique, and I ran off to fetch the police. And couldn't find any, so eventually knocked on a stranger's door and begged the use of their phone; which they allowed after I'd charmed them a little, but they had three, and I tried two of them and couldn't get an answer or a dial-tone or any response at all, which was clearly my fault for not knowing how to use them; so I ran on, and ran into an arcade of shops & businesses, and found myself barging into a beauty-parlour where naked people were being massaged, and apologised hugely and backed out and ran on, and went back to my house where there was a great skip outside and people were going in and out with wheelbarrows, taking all my things and I just couldn't stop them, and...

And when I woke up I was breathing very heavily, like unto I had been running, and it wasn't nice at all.

Am I feeling insecure and inadequate, or what?

In other news: I have written one sentence this morning. I have also made a couple of important phone-calls and done some useful thinking about the next book proposal; and it's by no means a bad sentence; but still. One sentence.