O soothest sleep

Decided, as there was nothing pressing, to declare today a PK holiday. Pottered down to the gym, ironed 10 shirts, organised and folded everything in my airing cupboard, and saw Lorraine briefly in the afternoon as she was working from home.

I'm craving sleep. I want to drift my boat into a lake of sleep for several weeks. But had an extra hour today, and when not sleeping and pottering, I listened to A Passage to India again. It is such a good book, and it is pure pleasure to hear it read, and rapier sharp after the occasionally plodding Stieg Larsson.

Calliope bringing big moths into the house all evening, accelerating past me so that I could not rescue them in their attempts to blunder free. There must be a poem in this somehow, to go with the Moth Display poem which I already have.

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