In Mores If Not Creativity

[Grrr...falling asleep not long after 9:00 last night ought to have guaranteed a refreshed Huntington this morning. Instead, I awoke from a bad dream at 12:30, called down to our new roommate Jean that, even though he was in the basement, I could hear his interminable French cellphone conversation as if it were happening dans mon oreille, and finally drifted off. Woke up again at 5:30, eventually realized sleep wasn't coming back, and lay in bed finally finishing A Moment's Liberty, Virginia Woolf's abridged diary covering 1915 to her suicide in 1941. (If I'd done that before, I wouldn't have traipsed all over Tavistock Square last February looking for her house, which I finally learned was bombed by the Luftwaffe in '40. Still, there should've been a plaque.)]

[All of which made me frantic, cranky and eventually late for work. Late, because I lay in bed reading too long, then rushed thru breakfast (cooked by John and served to a household which is beginning to resemble "Bloomsbury" in some ways, in its fluid mores if not yet in its creativity) and ablutions; frantic, because I was late; and cranky because of the frantic lateness and not enough uninterrupted slumber.]

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