On Mornings

When I was younger, I lived mostly at night. I had a day job in a library and a night job in a bar so trendy you probably wouldn’t have heard of it.

At 4am, I’d be in a party in Hulme with people so cool that you probably wouldn’t have heard of them. Buzzing like a trapped wasp, in tower block high aboove the sleep slumped city.

Then at 10am I would be filing books in the romantic fiction section of Withington Library. Books so uncool you definitely would have heard of them. (sorry there is no spell checker on here) I’d look at the garish pink and the watercoloured covers of men in old fashioned breeches and I’d ache for sleep.

I used to think the nighttime was better. Mornings used to rip me awake with their sharp claws, bad breath.

Now, I love mornings. The rest of my family sleeps as morning shuffles me awake and wraps a velvet cloak of calmness around me.

This morning I have silently unloaded the dishwasher, unloaded the washing machine, hung it on one of those stupid dryers which don’t work and loaded it again.

The kitchen is cleaned

and then the sofa tidied and now I sit and listen to the rain and to the blurry music I remember from those nights long ago. Mainly the rain though, it is fucking belting it down here.

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