Yet again the Sandman has failed to do his job and I find myself peering out over the bags under my eyes at a moonless world.
Yesterday saw me in Oxford for the first time for some six or seven years. Cathedral - Debenhams - Phillips Books - Cathedral again, all in all a lovely day: tinged with sadness, since it was there that I spent my honeymoon in 1971.
Walking through Christchurch Meadow, the scene of many of our early photographs was suddenly quite a gut-wrenching memory and I found myself very close to tears. Strange how small things trigger enormous reactions.
For me there has always been something magical about Oxford. A combination of incredibly beautiful buildings, lovely green settings, bookshops and coffee shops and the teeming thousands of visitors, students and locals, together with a touch of Morse/Lewis make it immensley attractive.
The sonorous tones of "Tom" recording the hours is also one of my earliest and best-loved memories of this most charismatic of cities.
My late husband and I often did the "favourite places" thing, with Canterbury then Oxford top of his list and York then Oxford top of mine. Is there something special retained in the ancient stones of these places, or possibly some inherited memory from previous centuries which flits in and out of our conscious minds.?
Not sure where I'm going with this, nor even sure it's worth setting down but insomnia has it's own way of dictating behaviour and busy fingers (even if the brain is barely present) follow their own directions.
Four twenty am and possibly worth trying to get an hour 's sleep before the day officially arrives. More anon!