Velvet black skies, even at 7am. Just the glow from the orange street lights out the front. Not a sound, except the drone of the fridge.
Wide awake for the night shift, sleep did not return, and I gave up before 6 to see in St. Stephen’s Day in the calm of early morning.
Pacing around the house quietly, tidying this and cleaning that. Creating a new normal with all the lovingly given Christmas presents. Finding new homes for them. Squeezed onto shelves, squashed into drawers.
Meantime outside the darkness wraps around the red brick terraces like a new blanket, while the people who live in them sleep off the excesses of Christmas day. It’s giving so many the chance to rest, nest and reflect.
We’ve survived another year as my eldest always says. And we survived Christmas Day too, with the help of my girls and a dear friend. Today we look forward. There’s a week to fill before the manic chaos of normal life returns. Decisions, decisions.
By 8, I am joined by the early birds tweeting, and a lone bin lorry rumbles its way down the street – not ours. Our overflowing bin will have to wait until the weekend..
The first rays of light are spilling over the rooftops. Soon, very soon, my disabled daughter will be the first of the household to wake, and my time will no longer be my own.
And then I hear a giggle from the next room. She’s awake and she’s happy. It’s going to be a good day.