It’s half six. I’ve been up for a bit and awake a longer bit. I’ll be on my second mug of java imminently. The hum of the fridge and the faux tick of the wall clock are all that contribute at the moment to the soundscape in my treehouse, the wrens having gone silent outside, their morning calls to prayer (as I like to think them, notwithstanding what the ornithologists have to say) having given way, I suppose, to the imperative of hunting bugs for the kids, the lot of parents everywhere. I’ve no lines to write, the night elves having left me no notes. I could footle about for an hour or two without their help, and probably will, only because the alternative is my list of chores. Now for that second mug of java.