I am sitting here in a quiet house. This is rare now-a-days. Usually my "alone time" comes when I am going to or from somewhere. And then I'm not really alone anyway. I'm on the train or the tram or walking on a busy street. In this deliciously quiet house I'm supposed to be working. I have a deadline for a project I've been working on for the last few months. I'm a consultant for a project looking at health systems in low and middle income countries. This is a rather fancy way of saying that if I do not produce 'something', I will not get paid. I need to get paid. But in the delicious-ness of a quiet house, on a quiet street on the last day of the long Easter weekend, what I actually feel like doing is eating some more chocolate and curling up in bed with a book. It feels like Sunday. Only it's Monday, and I should be working.