I struggled to sleep last night. I've struggled to sleep for days, with my stepfather in hospital (out at last now) and my over-active head full of plots and plans on hold. At five-and-twenty past three this morning (as my glorious grandmother, ninety-three next month, would put it) a moorhen squawked. At half past three my garden cuckoo began, loudly. A cockerel crowed (twice but not thrice) and a blackbird sang. As if passing a torch (Olympic, naturally) from garden to garden all the blackbirds began to sing until my head and the street fair throbbed with it. A song thrush chipped in - chip chip chip! - and I lay awake yet.
All this before four.