A lunchtime, finally, of writing; pen to paper, mind to page, with a warm cup of coffee and the late winter breeze dancing around my ankles. Curried scrambled eggs on his homemade loaf for weekday breakfasts (quicker than porridge, and it feels so spring-like.) Egg-yolk crocuses pushing their way up through the soil in the park. The changing sky beyond the office window, one minute wide and white like a sheet hung to dry; the next a slew of sweet-shop hues – candied orange, sherbet lemon, dusty peardrop, marshmallow clouds floating by. Italo Calvino’s The Distance To The Moon. The view, calming, across sandstone rooftops. Walking across limestone soil, bootcaps dusted with chalk. Singing up there in the hills, and right then, the realisation that we will leave the city someday. Sooner rather than later. Our Sundays, then, I hope, will be always like last. Rising late to mugs of steaming coffee, plural, as a slender cat pushes open the door with her paws and joins our sleepy tangle of limbs. A hot shower, warm enough to fog the windows and brush away sleep, and then mud-laced walking boots on, scarves tied and gloves in our pockets – out into the wild green air, out onto the swell of hilltops, to walk and to talk, to brush away the Sunday cobwebs, a tonic to bottle for the week ahead. The afternoon spent smug and exercised, lazing in warm rooms with piping hot soup for lunch, homemade bread for dipping, the weekend papers to peruse, an early night. One day, someday. And the thought makes me smile.