We wake up when our dog shouts at us. Half past nine. Sun is shining. Mr makes toast in a frying pan: the grill pan is busy spitting sausage fat. Coffee is iconic dark. There's a line of medicinal wine stain on my lower lip. It smiles at me through mirror dust.
It doesn't matter to anyone if I clean the kitchen or not, so I do it. A pot sits on the Rayburn top, sweating vegetables. The washing machine rumbles. Windows stretch open, let the sky spill in.
No one looks at a clock until their belly prompts it.
If it feels like time to walk on the beach, it has nothing to do with clocks.
Some useful stuff is put in the car: like coats and house keys.
Flip flops are kicked off. Feet in sand don't mind if the sun drops or the waves wash cold.
'What a nice life we're having,' Mr says.
Bared feet feel the warmth of the car pedals.
We could drive anywhere.