Upon awakening I stayed, eyes still shut, in my bed and I just lay there, thinking. I sensed I was alone and I might have thought that I was still in Australia, house-sitting, except for the fact that I was on a different side of the bed – not my natural bent to the right side – and the bed was softer. At around six-thirty in the morning (I guessed later) it was dark; not dissimilar to five-thirty in Loganholme latterly, just before sunrise, and my preferred time to stir from sleep in order to make the most of the cooler part of the day. Until a week ago I used to sleep under a sheet only, perhaps pulling a cover over me in the early hours but kicking it off again and throwing a foot out over bed even before the sun had emerged. This morning I was demure, forced into shyness inside a winter duvet cocoon.

My eyes remained shut and I thought about my son, James. For some reason – maybe because he has just got married – my mind went back to the time I first laid eyes on him; he was long and thin, a tad jaundiced, a little bruised and horny from the forceps, and somewhat Chinese-looking. “He’s like David,” I said to myself at the time, although my baby’s father didn’t look in the slightest bit Chinese or goat-like. David didn’t make it to the wedding on Sunday. Some people had wondered why. I decided that David had thought one father of the groom would be enough at a Sikh wedding and I suspect he was right. Nevertheless, he missed something spectacular and amazing, not for the first time.

From behind my closed eyelids I could sense the sunlight entering our bedroom, not only through the curtain material but also in chinks around the gaps at both sides and top and bottom of the curtains. At length I gave in to the beckoning of the sun and opened my eyes. I was alone. Yet again it occurred to me that, by always getting up so early, Chris missed out on the pleasure of us waking together and, for a moment or two I felt lonely.

I observed the mountain of clothes on the Ottoman at the end of my bed and cringed – my idea of emptying the contents of my suitcase onto the bed, therefore forcing me to put things away immediately, had not worked because I promptly forgot they were there until bedtime last night.

I arose and went upstairs. Through the open door to the lounge room I could see the evidence of an hour or so of ironing endeavours.

“Good morning Darling,” said Chris with surprise as he entered back into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Tea please,” I smiled, making for the bathroom. It was somehow kind of comforting to know that I didn’t have to tell him how I like my tea.

“Shall we have our tea back in bed?” Chris asked.

“Yes please.”

Back in the bedroom the mountain of clothes insisted upon being reduced to a foothill and prevented us from taking our usual early morning tea ritual in bed.

“Sorry about the  mountain,” I apologised.

“That’s okay,” said Chris, “Do it little by little. Remember last time your suitcase hung around for two weeks?”

So I sipped my tea and slipped a few more things away in the wardrobe, and I didn’t feel odd – I felt like I was getting back to normal.