Despite having been awake almost until sunrise, I felt perfectly fine with awakening at 11am. I read part of the wonderfully good Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, which has thus far been a beautiful and very clever novel.
And I am now drinking Vanilla Coke from a water bottle.
To-morrow my aunt's supposed to arrive here with her cats and dogs. She shall be living here for six months, which is a good thing for several reasons, perhaps the most appealing of which is the fact that by having someone to socialise with her, my grandmother shall not take so much selfishly disdainful notice of my need for solitude in this little room.
Ack. My hands are as dry as chalk . . .