Bertie lies under the kitchen table, warm body, soft fur against my bare toes. With much cracking and squeaking of plastic on plastic, he happily chews an old battered water bottle.
A tentative beam of sunlight briefly appears through the window and lights up muddy dog footprints, a film of pale dust over the dark red tiles of the kitchen floor. The sun doesn't linger and the view down to the stream and the small bridge returns to a subdued misty grey.
Elbows on the table, pink scruffy dressing gown sleeves pushed back, gardening magazine read, tea cup empty in my hands, the sweet-sour taste of Tod's home-made bread just a memory on my tongue. It's time to face the day.
Or maybe linger a while longer, with another cup of tea?