“Anything the matter?”
“Yes, last night, you rolled over, walloped me and growled, ‘Stop breathing.’”
I remember a long dream about a vixen in the garden making her distinctive call, arising in the realisation that it was, in fact, Nigel – not in the garden – in bed next to me.
“You were doing a really shrill snore.”
I should probably apologise for hitting him, but since I can’t remember it, don’t feel guilty – hooray for the powers of illogic!
And the twins!
I lumber up the stairs into the loft. There is a Perran-shaped lump under the duvet where there should be flat vacancy.
“Up, now! Your paper round!”
Next, I grab the golf umbrella from its usual spot on the landing and enter Carenza’s lair. She sleeps in a raised bunk, and it’s easier to stand below and prod her with something sharp.
She squeaks satisfyingly, but when I check later, she’s gone back to sleep.
I end up driving them to school and feeling guilty. How will the week go on after a start like this? But returning home more slowly, I see that the sun is out, the grass is bright green after the snow, the birds are stirring excitedly in the trees. My heart lifts. Spring is nearly here.