Buggy-Buggy-Buggy-Bug

I dreamed I was working with my old boss, but now we weren't priests but government assassins. There were some enemies of the state living in an apartment a couple of floors above the one we were thinking of renting and we had a plan to take them out using a stick of dynamite disguised as a pencil. Unfortunately they heard us plotting and adopted a menacing tone- so we leaped into action and garroted them instead. This was a little unpleasant- and as we quit their apartment- having left the dynamite in place to wipe out the evidence- my boss said he no longer fancied moving in downstairs because the place now held "memories". He was still a bit wired and when a hapless passer-by got in his way, collared him and, pretending to be a health inspector, covered his hair in flea powder, going "Buggy-buggy-buggy-bug!"

Shortly afterwards (this is now on the earthly plane, not the astral) my mother fell out of bed- as she does every once in a while. She was as cheerful as ever- but had somehow managed to get her left leg threaded through the arm of her bedside commode. We disentangled her, but it was an hour or so before I got back to sleep. This having being the night the clocks went back I stayed in bed until what would have been 8.30 British Summer Time but was only 7.30 by today's reckoning.