It seems a teensy bit churlish to complain about being woken up by streams of lyrics stampeding through my head, but that's what happened this morning. I wanted to oversleep. I am so tired that I avoid mirrors because of the reflection of a ghost that peers back.
It's because I have started recording an album, something that has given my imagination permission to let rip.
Blah, blah, blah, the words come flooding out! Blah, blah! Write us down! We are a Good Idea!!!!
At the moment, the lyrics are congregating in one room, buzzing and whirling, shaking hands with each other and deciding whether they should meet to make a verse or a chorus, or if the next phrase along would be a better fit.
In another room are the melodies and guitar riffs, fighting between mechanical and emotional territories: melodies land on riffs like bees on to flowers, then fly off again to land elsewhere to rest finally on a friendly guitar part, singing 'I live here!' at the tops of their voices.
All I have to do is to make a door between the rooms....
Alas today might not be the day; a mountain of emails and other small tasks have built up over the last two weeks, and there is no food in the house.
I am the opposite of a Brexit hoarder: I'm cupboard evacuator, a past-it's-sell-by-dater, a last soggy biscuit in the packeter, a poor sad carrot eater, a cut the green bits off the cheeser.
I am going shopping with a big bag and a big purse then coming home and eating Big Food.
After that, the email mountain will seem like a mere hillock and the fog of small tasks will sort themselves into neat piles.
After, after that... a song, perhaps?