Late Start

It isn’t a good start to the week.  I wake with a man talking to me about weather.  It is the Today Programme.  I should be up by now.  Nigel is getting dressed.  Even through sleep-bleared eyes, I detect hunched shoulders.

“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.