Mondays never go well.
For a start, the alarm always sounds far too early. After two days of coming round 3 minutes before the usual wake up call when I could have had a lie in, I am dog tired on a Monday morning. Completely un-ready for business. Groggy. Dazed. Definitely unfit for handling anything more than the other side of my pillow.
And that’s how it continues.
I throw the teabag into the yoghurt while pouring hot water on the concoction, placing the cereal back in the door of the fridge while the now displaced milk makes its way into the crockery cupboard.
Keys, only used the previous night to lock the door, are mysteriously lost, shoes of the matching kind without the second in the pair. Toothpaste smudges weave themselves into the fibre of my fresh top, and the cat moults part of her fluffiness into the cuppa and consequently onto my tongue.
I guarantee for nothing under these circumstances. Husband keeps his head down on the way to the train, cyclists instinctively jump out of the way, nothing and no one dares to stay in my way.
Until I reach the yard, having driven past meadows where deer graze and sheep munch. Through puddles and past quaint Tudor houses.
When I reach the yard, there is only peace. Expectant nickering, teeth grinding horse nuts or hay, the musk of the muck heap and, above all, bird song so loud the sparrows are seen as a pest in these parts. A robin comes to have a look at what I am doing with the bed of straw in one of the stables, then follows me up the hill or trills from one of the rafters up high.
And then Mondays always go well.