It’s a Suzanne Vega song about a spider on her bedroom wall, ‘watching the rise and fall of all the soldiers that have been there’. I have one on my bedroom wall. A tiny thing that have moved from above the door to just to the right of my bed. Does it watch me?
My dreams continue haphazard and full. The last one involved me knocking at a door in a street only to have the door open and a legion of both farmyard and exotic animals, including a full grown Jersey cow, trot out. It was a house where the living accommodation was up some steep wooden stairs. The house upstairs was neat and orderly and presided over by a pretty, pleasant middle-aged woman who told me she wrote ‘easy’ novels and that her husband did a lot of work for the Today programme. Her young son was there too. He chattered away to me. I needed the loo. In fact I had to go twice for which I apologised profusely. She offered no explanation for the fact that she kept her animals indoors and the house seemed none the worse for it. Mind the dog, she said at one point as it pushed its nose up my dressing gown. Was I wearing a dressing gown?
Another blissful morning. Chores have been done, including defrosting the fridge and freezer. Letters have also been written. He has gone back to bed, having not slept a wink, so I shall take the bins. The least I can do. And I have decided to put the disaster of the flapjacks behind me. He says he will eat them. I will probably make another batch next week. They are a sad sight. It’s probably the oven, he says. Enough I have sewing to do and the next instalment of Silas Marner.