Saturday November 6, 2004
A perfectly pleasant day, uneventful and with little notebook material, it’s true, but there’s nearly always a snippet of conversation or the observation of a peculiarity of cat behaviour to be worked up into a journal entry first thing in the next morning’s writing session.
Unless the first thing next morning doesn’t happen, of course. You see, I did that fiercely irritating thing again, when you go to sleep for about an hour and then start into wakefulness, looking at a dark ceiling until discomfort drives you upright, to wander listless off to the kitchen for a small hours hot drink in the gloom.
Hey ho. I sat sipping hot peppermint tea, tried to read my book, massaged my hip, sighed a lot, and finally decided that a physical rest was better than no rest at all. So I took myself off to the sofa, snuggled up and relaxed as best I could. The hours passed, daylight fumbled its way around the curtains and then… I went to sleep.
So the first thing next morning didn’t happen today. Or perhaps, really, it’s tomorrow. Or yesterday. No great problem of course but it is all terribly confusing.