Awoke 5:30 assaulted by birdsong – bedroom bright with light (grown unused to this in shuttered rooms and tent on the bike trip) – surprised I slept so well in an 80-degree room without a/c, even tired as I was & am – equally surprised I can’t get back to sleep. The birds are familiar, like last night’s frog duet. Same frogs as last year? Or only same song? Overnight I dreamt – swore I wouldn’t report dreams but this one too bizarre – that I was told about a French publisher who had cancelled publication of an 1800-volume series of books, one man’s work, about dal, the Indian lentil dish.

Now: swim – at last! – unpack properly, repair malfunctioning toilet cistern, re-enter the world of many household chores to be shared and upcoming challenges to be met, in particular starting simultaneous rehearsals on two new plays. Get the motorbike cleaned and put up for sale. Return to a healthy eating and exercising regime. Resume ordinary life. Begin summer school teaching in the city in 6 days’ time. How strange this day-book/diary tone, as of a normally functioning daylight human being. Would a true journal – or simply a maniac’s journal – read, ‘Must kill N., or else find a way to stop thinking about it. Will go mad unless recognized for my achievements. Why are my hands shaking so? Am I dying?’ etc? – or is this simply the inner life as a Russian novel?