This morning I was woken from my Sunday lie-in not by the strains of Bob Dylan, but by an aria from Bizet's Carmen. A few minutes later, Wilson bustled in carrying a tray with my breakfast on it: an ant soufflé. W enigmatically told me that I could in future call him Soufflé Boy. I have no idea what's going on.
The soufflé was surprisingly un-horrible, though W did have to help me finish it. I left most of the ants.
Later, W confessed that he'd grown tired of waiting for me to start watching the new series of Dr Who and had watched the first episode last night, having been unable to sleep after reading his Leonard Cohen biography into the early hours.
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