For most or all of the past four days, Oliver has come into our bed between 3 and 5am. I'm not sure exactly how many times this has happened because I feel like I'm living in one of those swirly, Austin Powers-type swirls; the days are being sucked into a psychedelic vortex in which time ceases to be any sort of reasonable, helpful marker.

He claims nightmares, ideas, a desire to sleep "in yah bed, Mom"... before propping head on my stomach and feet into Tom. One morning, after I pleaded with him to return to his bed and let us sleep, he left but later brought me an offering. It was rather like the human equivalent of a fresh kill your cat drops on your doorstep: tiny bags (popped air-bag insulation) filled with cat and dog food and taped shut.

"In case we suddenly run out of pet food, Mom. Then we'll have these." I think I said "Thank you and nice thought"?

Needless to say, we're all bushed.

Perhaps that is why I way over-salted what should and could have been a scrumptious dinner last night. What a sad waste. My own canned tomatoes, fresh squid, a thoughtfully constructed sauce underpinned with anchovies, saffron, shallots and garlic. Boo!!