Oh! What a Beautiful Morning
There are times when I don't like living in London, particularly not in my dreary middle-class house in the dreary middle-class outskirts of North London, listening to dreary middle-class people argue and set me on edge, but being freshly woken up and stroked by the rays of the sun isn't one of them. The morning is a good time, a pure time; I'm still shaking off my sleep, still snugglingly absorbed in such pleasant things as quadratic equations, multiple dimensions and love. City mornings are beautiful in their own quiet, subdued way, and they're new and fresh. A new day, a new start. And then...well, then, what can I say? I'd love for that morning feel to continue, to be able to look to the day ahead with the clear eyes of someone who can start afresh. I'd love to be able to take pleasure in the simple joys of the sun shining through the leaves in the back garden, or seeing my cat soak up the warmth with the light shining off her glossy fur. I'd love ...