The smell on my skin is all too familiar- a fresh, soft scent bearing the faint sweetness of flower blossoms. I know this scent; once upon a time it was calmness after a long day. It was in the swirls of steam from a hot shower, and later, in the cosy burrow of pillows and sheets and warmth.

My heavy book of 366 bedtime stories has a story which explains the origin of snow. Unbeknownst to most people, up in the sky lives a lady in her nice little house, who opens her windows to beat her feather pillows every now and then. These little feathers then fall to earth as snowflakes.

My room is in a mess. my stuff needed reorganising and I thought some interior deco to spruce the space up would be nice. But right now, I’m sprawled on the chair, groggy and heavy-headed, wishing sleep would grant me its solace. Winter syndrome is back in all its haziness, and with it comes gluttony as well. It is a tight rope to walk- the art of satisfying my stomach- it gets hungry so fast and even threatens a hypoglycaemic attack if not fed. And then, after being fed, it hogs all blood supply for itself. Never mind the brain, let it go to sleep. Selfish brat, the stomach is.

Watched Sherlock today. Holmes and Watson. House and Wilson. Best buds. H steals W’s money and wears his clothes. W ‘enable’s H and plays along with his idiosyncrasies and fanciful ideas. And there’s also a little dog in both stories as well. Pure coincidence? I shall never see House in the same light again. *sigh*