It is a little past midnight here as I write this, and someone is snoring next to me in bed, and I can’t really sleep. What a perfect time to update my blog, right? In the dark of night with only the little lamp on so that Mark can sleep all right. All that’s on is the laptop screen light.

I went downstairs five minutes ago. Everything is dark and the floor are cool under the soles of my feet. Watson isn’t much for his toys anymore, but sometimes he likes to carry one of them from spot A to spot B. Of course I stepped on it on the way down, but I managed to avoid bursting out in curses and screams.

I don’t have to go to London tomorrow. I call myself an intern, because it’s the easiest and conveys 95 per cent of the meaning of what I do and what I am. The correct, and long, term is that I’m “participating in the work placement program” of my university. You see, my degree takes 3 years to do, but I’m on a four-year course. This current year is all about gaining work experience.

Since I’m not an intern in the strictest sense of the word, but in work-placement, I’ll have to do some rare things at university. And tomorrow is time for one of those rare things. I’ll have to attend a meeting with my tutor, mainly to tell him about what I’ve done, so that she can keep his papers in order. Undoubtedly she’s in constant touch with my ’employer’ as well, but I have to perform my role here.

Today, as October has started, I’m in a classical music mood. I’ve gone through my collection of things. Strange how music taste is so sensitive to mood. Today has been all about brittle piano notes, weeping violins, moaning oboes, and sighing saxophones. One could almost believe I’m down, but that’s not even true.

I missed my usual train on the way home, and then my mobile phone battery ran out. When I stuck it in the socket at work, it apparently didn’t recharge at all. So, by the time I came to Waterloo I had less than one per cent charge left. I couldn’t even ring Mark to tell him I’d be late.

On impulse, I rang my fellow intern and we went out for a beer. Then I missed the train again when I made another attempt. It was close to ten when I finally did come home, and Mark was annoyed with me. He’s been annoyed since then. But not even that made me sour, and not even that explains my excursions into melancholic classical music.

I’m just weird.