A car beeps its horn.

Slowly, I pull myself from the chair which I’ve been fermenting in all day, on this, quote, ‘pyjama day’ of mine. Dust swirls are forming and a used tissue, which I'd blown my nose in earlier, and is now dried solid, falls from my chest as I rise — falling into a breakfast bowl on the floor in a hole in one. I think about the mathematical permutations of this happening, just for a moment, while I step carefully over it. Warily, as if it were an exposed land mine, or maybe I'm just trying to forget it's there, as I walk towards the curtain, empty-handed. I pull one side of it away, just far enough to see a silver taxi slowly pulling to a stop outside, but not far enough apart to reveal my position, to the world. Well, to anyone outside, before the curtain falls again.

With my mission completed, I turn back around, as my armchair calls me once more, but as I do the car beeps its horn again, a little longer this time. Blaring out an impatient and hurried tone and I'm called once more to duty, as I pull the curtain back again. This time, dragging both sides of it wide open, with a flourish, and finally letting the day in at 2.34pm in the afternoon. Just in time to see a neighbour slowly meandering towards the taxi, a toddler down by her side, walking hand in hand.

She looks down at her child and then ahead once more.

4/7