Bah. Booklag!

Honestly, it's like pre-emptive jetlag: a week early and in the wrong country.

I was out with friends last night, drinks and dinner. I came home, I went to bed, I went to sleep.

I woke up at three in the morning, and was then - well, awake. For hours. Couldn't breathe, which didn't help. Mac got lots of purry snuggling, and was entirely sweet; Barry came and sat on my chest for half an hour, a couple of times (helping!). Me, I just lay there and listened to the radio and waited it out. As you do.

About six I got drowsy, so I didn't get up till half an hour ago. Late brefuss! Oh noes! But the boys are very good. Baz prodded me once; otherwise they just waited.

So now I have a head stuffed with sleepy and my lung hurts, and I would take the day off but I really do need to finish this damn book and I could do it in a day if I had a good one.

Writer seeks grindstone, for better application of nose.

Grumbly cat is grumbly

Poor Baz. Not only was his brefuss late, and his tea not compensatorily early; the house is now freezing. There's been a cold snap come down very suddenly, and the central heating doesn't work. Baz has spent much of the last hour shouting at me, sitting pointedly in front of the living-room gas fire (where I wasn't) or else stomping about the house all fluffed-up and cross.

Mac, meanwhile, has discovered the functioning gas fire in the study (where I am), and is toasting his little tabby tummy.