I woke last night convinced there were burglars downstairs. Heart hammering I clutched my trusty crowbar went in search of them. Must have been one of my increasingly disturbed and paranoid dreams caused by too many easter eggs, though I had to search the house twice to feel certain.

Otherwise very peaceful over the last few days. I've made a couple of bicycle rides and a swim but have felt very tired during them. Otherwise had a haircut, a nice meal with Mrs Kenny at the Glasshouse in Kew, and a family get together for Zara's birthday, and seeing Kate too for a chat and lunchtime pizza.

Have finished a reworking of a short story in my quest for SF publication this year, and fiddling with a poem about glasshouses. A million things not done though, and I'm dreading going back to the agency tomorrow. There is a tsunami of work heading towards me. Have fallen badly behind on the website and will aim to have the new one done by May 1st.

Listening to Bilal "1st born second" album a bit -- some good moments.

Is there such a thing as a sleeping retreat, where you are just allowed to sleep for a week undisturbed? I see it as a kind of bathysphere into which you can climb and descend; past all the freakish luminescent beings; then deeper through fathom under fathom of sleeping oblivion.