Here it is the wee small hours and here I am awake-again. I've always been a bit of an insomniac but these days, or should that be nights, the problem seems to be worse than ever. I used to wile away the hours doing quiet housework but it seems my nocturnal floor mopping and shower scrubbing disturb the rest of the household-who could all, incidentally, sleep through a bomb exploding if it happened at seven on a weekday morning.
At one time I would have indulged in a bit of fiction writing to entertain myself but the muse has left me and I don't know if she'll be back. NaNoWriMo notwithstanding.
I could always read. I have a to-be-read pile that can be seen from the moon. Sadly nothing seems to be able to hold my interest for very long. My reading has been reduced to flipping through knitting patterns in doctors' waiting rooms.
Speaking of knitting I finally finished last year's project (a simple moss stitch cardigan) and I'm rocketing through this year's (a Debbie Bliss Riding Jacket, I love its shape). There's nothing like big needles and thick wool to speed up a project.
And so it goes on.