One Day in the Life of Peter Kennivich

Went to bed at 1:30am last night, waiting to sign off a document. My colleagues, however, had simply not let me know that the document was signed off without me, despite being in constant touch till gone midnight. Deeply unimpressed by this, but I took the sensible decision not to rage about it. More luckily, however, I am going to be able to work from home after I get back from Vienna next week should they need stuff doing. So I will be be returning home (from Heathrow, gah) next Thursday with a song on my exhausted lips.

Lorraine working from home this morning. Walked to the station. Feeling tired on the train and trying to meditate. Once at Paddington, it was a particularly busy day, juggling urgent jobs. By the afternoon a strange calm had descended, and I slipped away on time. I had managed to go for a walk along the canals at lunch too. Have been walking over 10k every work day.

Home on time, and bought Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich at Victoria. However was too tired to read much of of the Stalin prison camp story, but what I read was  grim and good.

Home and Lorraine still at work, so cooked pasta and a sauce and when she came home we slumped bonelessly on the sofa. A glass of wine, and comfort food with my lovely wife, and Calliope restored the soul somewhat. Then a much-needed early night, with Lorraine reading a bit more from The Book of Dust.  Two days down, nine to go.