Last night I dreamt that I’d blogged.

“When are you going to mworgh?” CC said yesterday morning as we were walking down Neal Street, and the sun was out, and we were going to the market at Covent Garden for hot lamb pasties and an iced mocha. “The what-what?” I said, and she said: “When are you going to mworgh?” “To what?” “To mworgh,” she said, and took her hands off pushing the pram to pretend-type. “OH,” I said, and our eyes darted toward Mowmy.

I want to blog, I do, and I think there’s a good one in me, but right now I think we’re going to sing to the baby, and then go to the playground, and then walk along the river, maybe, and maybe, if it’s nice, there will be ice creams for girls.