Yesterday, having woken at an ungodly hour I remained such for hours, until close enough to an alarm that getting up made no difference. I was tired, so much so that driving into work occasioned one of those “where am I” moments similar to when, having driven from Bristol to Manchester, I failed to remember Birmingham. This time it was an eerie one minute tumbleweed along what later transpired to be the M48, but that’s motorways for you; and my excuse for the second - and definitely not the last - latte and cinnamon Danish combo of the week. It wasn’t enough to protect from a malcontent office air conditioner, but then what is?
Today starts a long Easter weekend in which to recover, eat chocolate, repent, think about fixing the blog, laugh at Ken Livingstone’s predicament and finish that book. Hopefully not in that order; I can laugh at Ken anytime and I’m committed to Tender Is The Night which, though brilliant, teases with the possibility of becoming annoying or worse, ordinary. I have four days, and no excuses.
The shortest day
15 hours ago