She is about to reread her notebooks of Gideon. A shout for help was intended, although the stretching yawn was bored already. Where was that morning she bounded up and was about before anyone else had thought about it. Her subconscious yawned again while her conscious dragged her feet over and down to snuggle in the bedside rug. She now lay like a twisted L, half in, half out of bed.

Tonight the loomed shadows in the candle-lit and ancient pub would let fly their ingenious pontifications. And she had not even written a single one.

She yawned and scratched her head. Shook it vigorously. The only way, her mind whispered, is to get up, make tea, get going, and write several. Out of several, surely one would turn up decent.

She giggled at the ceiling and rose carefully to the upright position. No. Good. Nothing cracked. Hysteria was rising. She needed to cool it.

She walked deliberately into the kitchen and put the kettle on. After which she walked purposefully into the living room and laid her yoga mat on the floor.

Tea drunk and yoga done, she returned to the kitchen and slumped at the kitchen table. Scribbled down the lines nice and quick:

It would do very nicely for this evening at the poetry slam. Not too short. Definitely not too long. Framed by a touch of humour. Good enough? she wondered, will it be good enough to buy me a pint?