I slept as if I’d been doped last night; instantly unconscious and waking through a cloying foggy gunge of sleep.
The new cunning plan of not drinking tea or coffee after 1pm seems to be working. And, as a result, my intake of fizzy water has gone through the roof. And that has to be good, too, right?
It’s 8am; I’m going to leave here to ride Vin soon. I’ll go up on the Bandit with a clean numnah and my riding hat stuffed in a rucksack.
I’ll go up the long-but-pretty way, to avoid the waterlogged lanes; A40 from Witney to Burford, down the hill through the village and up to the yard via the Chipping Norton road.
I’m taking Vin for a hack (read: scare every motorist to death).
Thoughts of the Grand Plan of moving house later this year make me nervous about being able to find Vin the quality home that he deserves to have.
I explained to a friend, the other day, that it’s a bit like taking the time and care to find the right Day Nursery for a child. Yes, it’s a bit like that. But more so.
Good thoughts about moving. It won’t be happening for six-eight months. But it’s still daunting. And exciting.