Who Nicked the Furniture?

I awoke at 3.30 after a vivid dream about my furniture.

I dreamt that my family were fighting over it and that my maternal grandmother, whom I adored, demanded to keep most of it (which would have been most out of character and unlikely given that she died six years ago).

I wonder if this is the result of living in a house that is almost completely bare?

Anyhow, as I came to I remembered that nobody could have stolen my furniture because husband called from Outpost to say that it had all arrived safely but that it did not fit into the Bishop’s house which is somewhat smaller than the one I have been busily filling with assorted bits of rubbish over the past six years.

I could not go back to sleep after that: so I am down here in the demi gloom, writing, drinking coffee, listening to the small sounds that spill only from an almost silent house (the odd beat of a bat’s wings, the tiptoeing of geckos, the whisper of rain outside).

I am glad there is a sensible reason for the scarcity of furnishing in the room I am sitting in. And gladder of hours I am stealing from the day.

Sometimes insomnia is useful. But only rarely.


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