God created man because he loves stories.

I often wondered where this quotation came from.

Last night, after a good four hours sleep, and with chamomile tea not doing its trick, I decided to find out.

I was soon engrossed in the harrowing story of Ellie Wiesel, who at 15, along with his family, were transported to Auschwitz concentration camp.

The quotation came from the preface to his book - The Gates of the Forest.

In it he asks, where is God hiding, where can one find redemption in a world that God has abandoned.

Walking home. Blazing sunlight.

I have forgotten what winter feels like.

Lulu and Gaby walk in front of me.

They are in deep conversation as they go for a swim in the sea.

I prefer to be alone.

Walk past my house and onto the great meadow of short cropped grass by the beach.

In 1998 after I lost my home, and was caring for my disabled mother, since my father had died suddenly, I came across this picture in a Sunday paper.

I was really taken with the illustration, which I cut out and stuck to the inside of a kitchen cabinet.

Every day, when I open the cabinet, the picture spoke to me. I resolved to see the animation as soon as I could.

The months grew, to seven years, and when my mother died, I was able to take my gap year,  about forty years late.

With many adventures around the world under my belt, I returned to Cornwall to work, write, and make myself a little home.

My friends Glenn and Anne-Marie had taken me for a lovely meal at the pub by the harbour. We must've spent nigh on four hours eating, drinking and telling stories.

Then we called in to my place for a nightcap (which left little in the bottle), and some more anecdotes. I normally drink a glass of red with my evening meal, which is why I use a wine box.

But for my friends, I keep my best wines, which arrive around Christmas time.

Every year Colin sends me six bottles of wine, and they never disappoint. I would like to be able to afford it, but my budget won't stretch that far.

I selected a bottle of Cabalie - a Catalan red made in traditional methods. It was extraordinarily good. By the time I retired the bottle was empty.

The wine must've helped me sleep, because when I woke it was 5 am. The street light had come back on, turning my ceiling into an imitation of the morning sun.

Unusually, I'd awoken from a dream in which I met a character from a previous dream.

We greeted each other like old friends.

A Texan meets an Englishman in a Pub, and asks him to explain what an English conundrum is.

Well, says the Englishman, imagine a crossroads, where a young lady is waiting for her intended.

Approaching the junction are four men. One is a pedestrian, one rides a moped, one drives a car, and the fourth rides a horse.

Which one is she waiting for?

Dunno says the Texan, you tell me.

It's the Horseman, replies the Englishman.

How'd ya work that out?

Simple, smiles the Englishman.

Because the horse manure.

Unusually, I slept very well last night. However, I did have a strange dream in which I dreamt that I had awoken from a dream to find that I was sleeping on a houseboat

Looking up against the blue sky with trees overhanging, I saw a man was looking down at me.

Unseen before Venus

Incense unknown

Petals unfold to

Nightingale alone

Willing pray that

Caution forewarns

Anchored fast

By ten young thorns.

I'm an anti-masochistic kind of person. Exercise is anathema to me, but I must do it for my own good.

Each day I walk to the top of the village, where, out of breath, I am rewarded with a view over the harbour.

I woke up just before 3 am after a really good five hours sleep, thinking about Tolkien's short story "Leaf by Niggle".

If you haven't read it, The story seems to be inspired by Dante's Inferno.

This led me to search for a solution to the problem of how to finish a main project, whilst still accomplishing those smaller projects appear each day to elbow their way in and a delay completion of the larger project, is simply not to impose a deadline.

Don't worry, as long as some small progress can be made each week on the larger project, it will eventually be completed.

This was brought home to me as a young designer when my MD asked me the question – "How do you feed the cow whilst the grass grows?"

Beware the dreaded Lurgie

They hide one nose not wear.

It is a funnyanything

That sometimes

Gives a scare

A Lurgie loves to hide and lurk

In lounges in the dark

Where fluff balls hide  a

Lonely spider

Waiting for a snark

Sitting on my own, looking out of the window at the incoming tide, sipping a beer, and reading my emails, I couldn't help overhearing the bar staff.

A quartet of females, chatting about men. So frank and friendly. Comments cut through the background music, like – only want one thing – they either think you're frigid, or a whore.

One or two of the local lads came out well from the discussion, but they shone like a beacon on a foul night.

A few days later, I found myself one of four men at a dinner table. I had come prepared for an hour or two of verbal competition and character dismantling.

After the preliminary comments about government and the state of the economy, one of my fellow diners looked at me and said – it's alright for you, raking it in with your latest book.

I think you're confusing me with someone who's famous, I replied.

There are days when the accumulation of important, but non urgent tasks, overflows the vessel, and action has to be taken.

Yesterday started later than intended, due to the cold weather, and the necessity to check the heating in empty properties,

so after a busy day in town, by the time I reached the ferry, it was quite dark.

There was something rather magical about driving onto the floating road, then being majestically carried across the moon-lit stretch of slumbering, black, water.

No sooner was I home, purchases stowed and food in fridge than there was a tap on the door. I had forgotten that it was local's night in the Lugger Inn.

It was good to see my old mate John, who I hadn't seen since his birthday bash just before Christmas, when Toni was unable to join us, having just had part of a lung removed.

A forgotten memory has just floated to the surface, brought there by some unfathomable brain collections as I read:

'Why are cats everywhere in Greece' *

It was at a party that met Jane. I couldn't help but say, you remind me of Jacqueline du Pré.

Flicking back her long fair hair, she replied – they all say that – I don't play the cello. I'm a concert pianist.

We talked, music mostly. And later she pulled me up from the sofa.

I don't dance, I said, but she held me close, too close, and whispered – this is a rumba, everybody can dance the rumba.

The party broke up, and she asked me to drive her home. I thought about it for a few seconds, and then reason jabbed me in the ribs with his pokey stick.

I'll get you a taxi I said.

I was flattered - but

I was intoxicated.

Slept like a log for about eight hours. Then, with a start, I was thrust into a dream.

Somebody was showing me a black and white photograph, taken in the early 1900s of a farm house in a prairie. It had been abandoned.

As I was looking at the photograph, a strange feeling overcame me, as if the photograph was showing me what happened after it was taken.

The image took on the quality of an early silent film, but without any music or subtitles.

As I stared at it, a tall fir tree on the left of the picture moved its topmost branches slowly, as an unseen wind gently stroked it.

Gradually, a storm blew, and the tree swayed from side to side, like a ballerina, eventually its topmost branches almost touched the ground next to the house, but it refused to yield.

The picture then changed to winter, a dusting of snow softened the scene, and the little farmhouse stood, foursquare, undamaged.

Sometime ago, I gave up trying to control my insomnia.

Like a cat, I sleep when I'm tired, and at night amuse myself doing whatever I fancy when I'm not.

Usually, I'm awake best part of the afternoon and evening, which is convenient work-wise and for socialising.

Last night, after a couple of hours sleep, I was awake until a little after 6:30 am.

I don't fret if sleep doesn't visit me, I just carry on, thumbing my nose at the Sandman, and doing whatever is it hand, plus eating if and when I'm hungry.

It is conducive of the laid-back existence which suits me down to the ground.

The train crash wakes me up, I can't remember where I was going, or from where I had departed.

It's dark. It doesn't matter. My finger reaches out and strokes the face beside me.

It lights up – 3:50

That's two hours sleep. Was it dream #134 that woke me?

Beside me is an empty cup that held chamomile tea. They say it helps you sleep, but I still only get two hours at a time.

I make proper breakfast tea, and a slice of sourdough toast, buttered and covered with marmalade.

Now I am more awake than I was yesterday, and my head is clear and full of optimism.

Yesterday, in sunlight too bright, air too cold, and a sea too calm, I took a short walk up to the cliffs with my neighbour and her dog.

She asked me if I had any plans, and I asked her if she could keep a secret. Of course she replied.

I never tell a secret, unless I want it repeated, which can be fun, so I told her my next adventure was going to be in Japan.

Her face lit up, that's wonderful she said, and started telling me everything about her time there, and what I should do.

Did I tell you I loved you often enough?

Did you realise that I tried to be what you wanted.

People only really appreciate something when they've lost it.

Well, my beloved, the people here seem to have known you better than I.

They are saying such nice things about you, what a happy woman you were, how your sunny smile made people feel uplifted.

How you were there for them when times were low, And how you unselfishly enjoyed their successes. How could I have been so blind?

And now, I have to live without you..........