Sleep. I want sleep so much, I need sleep more than anything. The Little One is sick, he coughs all night, wakes me up, and then wakes up between 5 and 6 because his throat is too sore. My brain, I think, had turned into slush, mush, grey congealed porridge. The only coherent thoughts I have revolve around giving medicine three times a day, feeding the rest of the troups, and ordering Christmas presents. If I try to introduce any thesis-related thoughts to the mix, everything stops, like an old engine coming to a slow halt. The only positive thing – I can actually manage to keep my eyes open. Small mercies.