I learned this week that I like my own space. Love it. Cannot get enough of it. Stretched out with my feet on my coffee table, spoiling my pretty table-cloth, with an obscene delicacy from Starbucks settled beside me as a Sunday treat, I don’t know that I have ever felt nicer.

I have left the dog who I looked after for ten days sitting fat and happy with his owners, in his impractical beautiful house, and if I see him fleetingly on point of death as my minutiae flit before me, it will be far too soon.

I have greedily consumed a biography of Evelyn Waugh, sent in a grossly poor first draft of bits of my thesis, learnt the value of an early morning walk, seen an old friend, and am buying a new book to read which comes highly recommended. I have the birthdays of two of my favourite people in the world on Thursday, and life is fine.

I am wolfing down a little slice of BBC Radio Four, because nobody is quite as fond of Open Book as I.

Oh, and the sun is out. Pathetic fallacy, I salute you.

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