A month of sleep

January should be a time of hibernation, nesting, and restoration after the whirlwind of Christmas. Last month, we dealt with a bereavement, an operation, and mountains of work. I have what the Guardian has coined Goldfinch Arm ('the specific ache you get from Donna Tartt's excellent but heavy hardback'), having stayed up too late, too often. I need sleep.

February seems as good a month as any to commit to regular early nights. Does this make me a bore? Maybe. But there are bags on my bags; my eyes can't go on like this.

The bed linen is freshly laundered and the bedroom tidied. I'm joining the zzzzz-list.
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