I'm not the soundest sleeper. In fact, if the constant complaints of my partner are anything to go by, It's fair to say that I'm a “bloody nightmare” to sleep next to. Recently I've taken to trying Nitol, which is a bit of a con, I think, as the instructions tell you that it's impossible to over-dose on them. As far as I'm concerned, if anyone's selling medicine which can't be abused, it can't possibly do any good.

But sleep is where it's at. Sleep is the new meditation, so I've heard. Modern doctors are prone to discuss “quality of sleep” just as much as “quality of life”, and it's becoming more common to hear that people are finding it difficult to get as much down-time as they feel they deserve.

A poem about information

Looking towards Angram and Scar House Reservoirs, North Yorkshire

Looking over Lower Bardon Reservoir towards Appletreewick and Skyreholme, North Yorkshire

A poem about the things we miss

It started with seeing a small fridge magnet that instructed, in rather twee American colonial style graphics, "Bloom where you are planted"...

A rare and classic improvised jazz session spoiled by my narration! I'm going straight to hell for this one...