The last of the bank holiday Mondays for a fair while. They all seem to be clumped together in April and May, then we get a whole long stretch when you have to use up a day’s holiday if you want to avoid the office.

Hmmm…

Well, I guess it’s a good job I got up early to make the most of it, then. In fairness that was going to happen without too much effort anyway, as I was under the duvet and fast asleep almost immediately after doing the web feature on Through the Night and knew nothing until the sun was up in a clear blue sky.

Reason: another migrane. Two in a month, after ten years of none. It doesn’t help when they come on an hour before you’re due to sit by the ISDN and talk on the radio for half an hour.

Could it be the book writing wearing out my brain? I’ve found that in the last two months of really serious writing I’ve been having scarily vivid dreams. So vivid, in fact, that I don’t just believe them for a few seconds after waking up - I keep remembering them all day long as though they really did happen. It’s getting to the point where I’m waking up exhausted.

So, rather than lie in bed I made soup. Gallons of the stuff, as it turned out, as I rather mixed up my ingredients, so it was as well it turned out to be eminently edible.

In the interest of forestalling further vivid dreams tonight (and being a lazy git) I wrote off the writing for today and decided to settle on just a little under 3,000 words for the weekend. Instead, I bought cookies and took them around to mum’s for us all to eat with tea and the cat on the lower patio down by the meadow where the horse spent his time kicking the three-bar fence.

Enjoying someone else’s garden, when you don’t have to mow it, weed it or prune it yourself is a luxury every flat-dweller must surely relish. Just like when we gather at Trevor and Jon’s, and I hunker down by their radiator as a welcome relief from my soulless storage heaters.

I’m rambling now.

Ho-hum…

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