Oh my head

Returned to Wales last night and spent the evening with our neighbours. Rob drinks cider, lots of it usually. He was down on supplies, so brought over a bottle of wine to top things up. It went down well, after the stiff gin I'd begun with, and the whiskey which followed.

I lay in this morning - or so I thought, until realising I've not reset the clocks since summertime. And what I'd usually think of a beautiful dawn seemed a touch too bright - but in truth I'm not sure about that, because thinking hurts...

In a perverse way this is good for my head. It was in danger of swelling too much after learning I was a winner in the National Trust's competition for a signed copy of Butterfly Isles. Hardly a top literary prize, but  I'm imagining there were many thousands of entries (I wish) The competition was to describe an encounter with butterflies and I shall post mine shortly.

Coincidentally, the author who wrote the cover blurb for the book was a tutor on my recent writing course: she recommended I buy it. I'll wait and see, I said, I 'might win a copy - you never know. I was always confident; strange though,  how success can go to your head.

Now where did I put those painkillers?

This morning in my garden