“There are girlies here at the back, everyone!”

I’VE become a creature of routine; a routine that’s been shaped and formed by living in the same house, with the same people, for a long, long time.

It’s erratic and syncopated but a routine, nevertheless.

On Saturdays, when I wake between warm sheets, drink a pot of tea and read my book, routine can feel like sublime grace… a kind of surprise benediction even. In the main, however, the familiar whirligig of domestic routine feels comfortable: making toast, walking through my front door, coming home with the Sunday papers, having a bath, watching rubbish telly with my daughters under a duvet … the whirligig feels good, most of the time.