The Earth doth move

Apparently there was an earthquake last night. Buildings in Oxford were wibbling and wobbling, and inferiority complexes soared at the thought of neighbours having amazing sex that shook the beds of the whole street.

This is all very exciting. I managed to sleep through it, of course. Just when I've got my body clock on vaguely normal settings, something really dramatic goes and happens at a time when I used to be up. It did give me some really good dreams though, about Oxford collapsing.

Well, good in an adventurous sense, not in a wanting-it-to-happen sense. Imagine it though: some living metaphor about history crumbling around us, Oxford Castle crashing down, the bells of college chapels resonating throughout the town as they smash onto the cobbled ground. That would certainly give the tourists something different to goggle at.

Then again, maybe it could be a force for the good - history's aesthetic rebellion, as it were. The building work currently covering up the Taylorian would be swept away in one tremble, the plastic glory of the Westgate Centre smashed to smithereens amongst remnants of Primark pashminas. Even better, perhaps some chasms would open up, trapping fustery academics on a lava-surrounded island of Ann Summers, suave businessmen in G&Ds and delighted grannies in the weightlifting gym.

Oh the possibilities. If only they weren't just in my dreams...