In The Wee Small Hours

It is the time of year for all kinds of bugs and nasties.  It is 4.30am, and the cough that has kept my son, James, awake all through the night has finally sent us both downstairs, resigned to begin the day at such an ungodly hour.

The house is so silent you can hear it.

Outside it is still impenetrably dark, yet the birds are beginning to sing to lighten its depth.

Is January the bleakest month? I don’t know, but the month is almost out. The world continues to turn, and so does the clock.

It’s going to be a long day.