my mum gave us this picture book by a swedish behavioural scientist which is supposed to put the baby to sleep, and I gave it back. the rabbit is drawn in coloured pencil and he looks unwell, like someone who's been smoking a dozen cones a day since 2004 but hasn't slept since deciding to quit on tuesday after breaking a rib coughing. the book warns you off reading the book to someone who's driving, then the rabbit's mum takes him on a long journey to see uncle yawn. well, I'm sorry about uncles, but in the sense of general regret, not personal responsibility. my memory of being hypnotised in 1988 by bert potter the communist free-love therapist who turned out to be a paedophile is surprisingly clear. there were a hundred people in the room and nothing happened except sun coming in through the trees and the big bay windows onto the cushions and the groups of quiet cuddled up people, and bert talking slowly about a beach and the water line and a stone and a box. I feed my son to sleep, and sometimes when he doesn't sleep we just go out into the back yard and talk to cockatoos or look for the moon. I don't know if that's the right thing to do or not but it works okay.