I don't know what to write about. I feel devoid of interest. In both the sense of interesting or interested. See, you're bored already.

I asked Olivia what I should write about and she seized the chance to suggest (again) that I should write about her father snoring like a hippo, on my blog. I don't know why she's so keen on the idea yet she is. She even told him about it. I hastened to assure him it wasn't my idea, but he seemed alright with it.

There's a sort of a sad bed saga in our room. After years of a not very comfy mattress, I splashed out loadsa money on a natural latex one, and a bed by the same company that was just lovely. It arrived late, and the more affordable range mattress was always pretty uncomfortable. I should have got the deluxe one with all sorts of padding, but the money was getting silly - the one I tried out in the shop seemed fine, but it was on raised slats - oh, all this detail is very boring. In the end, the guy who sold it to me gave us a lovely free wool stuffed mattress topper, which helped a lot, but not enough, and I wake up every morning with crippling back pain. And Axel's snoring has got worse and worse. Though, age, smoking and lack of excercise probably contribute too.

So I dream of a perfect pristine bed with crisp covers and fat pillows and blackout blinds that work. And silence. Aloneness. Sleeping in solitude, unwoken all night long. Not stirring til I wake naturally, except maybe for a quick second at 6.30 am where I briefly surface from a dream of some handsome celebrity, wake enough to register my blissful comfort, warmth and sleepfulness, and the loveliness of drifting back into the dream again, for hours and snuggly hours.