Perhaps I woke up a little too early today. But at least I did. I awoke with the light itself, just as it started to do away with London's orange night, and I lay in bed a little while, like normal folks do, gathering my thoughts.

I went out into Stoke Newington at 6:40, and the shop that sells me fresh baguettes wasn't open yet, and neither was the coffee shop. Undeterred, I bought a Mars drink from the grumpy swine next door to Jeres' gaff and took my copy of Brave New World to the park, which was still locked up. So I sat in the neighbouring graveyard (above) and read, occasionally stopping to muse on the decrepit state of the stones, the rubbish that peppered the patchy grass, and the fact that the vast majority of the detail on the stones has been eroded. Most of them lie at queer angles, illegible in their markings and covered in moss. One I could read said it marked the passing of a man called Damian, who passed in 1887. A hundred and twenty years is all it takes for your memory to crumble. No flowers adorned any of the stones.

I shall cook myself some eggs now. I made my first scrambled eggs ever yesterday. It is piss-easy.