Bed at a perfectly reasonable half-past eleven, fluffed pillows, turned down the duvet like in hotels, lay there. Not sure what kept me awake — maybe the mouse in the hedge again or the wind fussing at the windows. Watched an episode (several) of that historical drama where everyone turns out to be a ghost. The plot made less sense every hour, though I felt a strange kinship with the woman who sleepwalks into her own wedding.

I made toast, wasn’t hungry, it felt like the right response.

Wrote a poem, don’t know if it’s any good, but it felt honest. May try Chamomile tea next time, tastes like damp hay.