Winter days start in deep darkness and summer days in bright blankness, two versions of one and the same thing: the empty sheet of paper. I dream a lot which means that my mind has been buzzzzing all night. Sleep comes very easily to me, as do dreams. Like peoples’ names, I never remember them when I need them. Events that I “remembered”, and have recounted in detail, I have later found have not been lived by me awake. At least I don’t think so. I’m full of admiration for autobiographers, in that they have retained enough, clear and detailed, information about themselves to paint a reasonably accurate picture of their passage through time up to the last word of their manuscript. Do they work backwards or begin from the earliest memory? Since the toil of writing an autobiography is not amongst my wildest dreams – there I go again – maybe I’ve already written a very good one, packed with events that I awake know nothing about, but which has the reader on the edge of their seat. The déja vu may have become the déja lu.