the mote in thine own

Whilst it's easy to attempt to blame the wingpiglet for our continuing lack of proper sleep (or at least his germ-spreading infant colleagues, one of whom has recently provided another source of ear-inflammation and impeded Tubes of Eustace) we would not perceive there to be a problem if we were able to be woken up at just before four in the morning whilst still having achieved a complete night's rest. Whilst I'm sure that the ten-minute nap I had at ten past seven (I am at least certain that I was asleep as I had a small dream about getting a puncture) more than made up for taking Edgar downstairs to play at about half-past four (when it became plain that he was just going to keep wailing if he was kept upstairs, especially if any attempt to persuade him that lying down and going back to sleep would be a good idea was made) I'm going to be sensibly preventative tonight by starting trying to go to sleep whilst the fiery ball is still fractionally above the horizon, or what would be the horizon if all of Fife was at sea level.