Sunday
I love Sunday mornings these days. I remember as a child feeling the drag of slow boring Sundays - too quiet, loomed over by homework, reprieved only by Brian Moore and The Big Match. As usual I woke up early around seven and ran the bath - now enjoying the quietness as she still sleeps. I caught the cricket score on the radio before settling into the bubble and Stuart Maconie's Cider with roadies. I was going to get up after one chapter but the next one was about his discovery of the Smiths and I couldn't resist.

Hearing footsteps I thought she was up but then remembered that my son had come home from university last night and it was him I found hunched over the computer in the living room. He complained of a headache and I inquired as to his water intake. He went for a shower and I set off for the paper. Not wanting to wake her by getting clothes from the bedroom I put my overcoat over my dressing gown, donned my Birkenstock sandals and headed off into the street, the weather a lot milder than it has been and the air around my naked legs nothing less than pleasant. The overcoat belonged to my grandfather and had been stored in a black bin bag in my mum's attic until about a month ago until I decided to reclaim it. It's a real Crombie though not the short dark ones worn by skinheads in the late 70's.

I passed no one on the way to the shop and said nothing more than "morning" to the newsagent. We don't chat any more as we have nothing much to say to each other. I always browse the tabloid headlines before picking up the Observer. I read the front page of the paper on the way back - always slightly wary I will step in dogshit.

I think I shall make pancakes for breakfast.