There shall be no clever insights or witty comments from me today. We’ve reached that time of year when the morning sun starts sneaking through the gaps in the blackout curtains at an obscenely early hour. Le Homme is resisting eleven years of training in the art of rolling over, burying one’s head in the pillow and Going Back To Sleep, instead preferring to get up, bang around the house and go off to work. He left the house at 5:30 this morning, the mentalist. I am violently grateful that today is my day off, and I could lie in a restless doze until I fell completely asleep roughly five minutes before the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of the Tesco delivery man.
Now, three cups of coffee later, my head feels cotton wool stuffed and my eyes are sore and tired. I have loads of stuff I wanted to get done today, but none of it has the urgency that sitting on the couch gazing blankly at the telly seems to hold.
So nothing deep and meaningful from me today. I wrote an amazingly fun poem as I was waiting for the Tesco man, but put nothing on paper and have predictably forgotten all the best lines. Perhaps they’ll come to me at 5:30 tomorrow morning.