It's dark when we (me and daughter) are getting up now. (In London.) Very difficult for the first ten minutes but strangely cosy after that, with lights, and heat on. But we are heading into long deep winter and it's a bit depressing. And my 44th birthday is looming which is also a bit depressing. Skin going soft, waking up in night to pee, I know I'm not old yet but I can see it coming over the hill. Never mind, I thought, I write books now, I don't have to be pretty, I can be intellectual. Why last night I started reading THE MASTER AND MARGARITA and what could be more intellectual than that. So it's fine. Unless I go senile. Then I really will be stuffed.