Windy night – Lucy started whining at some point, scared by the howling. Slept in entirely too late. Strange, vivid dreams about a man – who? – not responding to my texts. Ghosted. The sadness, shame and depression – an intensity of feeling, a potent cocktail known all too well to the app-users. But in the dream, the man was more than a weeks-long fling. So the sadness was was stronger, darker. Odd to experience such feelings in a dream world, so unlike my waking life filled with calm, stability, love and tenderness.

Clouds are moving fast, sun one moment, then grey. I hope the new buds stay alive even if temperatures dip. Surely Icelandic plants are hardy. Have asked Ívar to trim his beard, just was getting too caveman for me; happily, he is complying. I hear the buzz of the beard trimmer as I write. Oatmeal is again on the docket for breakfast and it’s fine – rib-sticking, slightly sweet from the addition of brown sugar. I haven’t stored it properly, so the sugar has gone to solid balls and fat chunks. I flip a hunk into the oatmeal and the heat makes it melt down. My midwife would not be pleased. Too much sugar, the baby will be too big. But plain oatmeal is just too bland for me, I need the Laura Ingalls stuff.