It is today. I woke up early, well short of my eight hours. MasterB tucked at the t-shirt I slept in, miaowed, demanded out.
The milk was off, though well short of its use by date. I didn’t fancy black coffee. I shall have to wait. I read a poem by Rebecca Goss called Birth. It is in the review section of last Saturday’s Guardian. I cried. Then I made a list: eggs, bread, milk, cottage cheese. Another: washing, take magazines to GP, send card, write invoice.
Maybe later I can have a nap. Continue reading