The mornings

I like to get up early in the morning and potter about the house before everyone else comes and starts the day. It’s lovely. I make myself a coffee, get out my writing – a diary, a printout of a work in progress, a letter to a friend – and I start to think.

I treasure the time to the point that if the mister gets up early too I am nothing short of rude. What are you doing here? It’s his house too, but his presence seems such an invasion. I tell him it isn’t personal but he says, It feels like it. There must be a way to make it work that doesn’t involve two houses, one of which is only used for a couple of hours in the morning.

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