Sunday

My hair is wet. My windows are fogged over. The rain forecast for this afternoon never came.

My bed is unmade. There has been no roast today. The door is ajar. There is an apple crumble in the oven downstairs.

The shadow of my head lies over my notebook now. The book I fell asleep reading last night lies catlike on the pillow.

Faintly, the clock ticks. Every now and then the sound of someone moving from room to room comes from downstairs. Outside, there is no sound.

Tomorrow is a new week, and with the new week, a new month. At six o clock this morning it was black outside. Every day brings us closer to winter.

September might be my favourite month. Orange might be my favourite colour–although I had always thought that it was red before now. I suppose even these fundamental things can change with time.

I never used to be an early riser. I never used to like custard, either.