Daisy rolled over in her bed and reached out, vaguely, to the side where Jack slept, before remembering, through the blur of half sleep, that she was a year and more out of date. Wrenching her mind from the same old feelings, she tried to visualise The Diary for today. The Diary, filled in by the reporters to book her time, was what dictated her every move. Short of fire, flood, murder, pile-up, or other disaster, The Diary sent her to this school for nine, that meeting for eleven, down the High Street by two for a photo opportunity with Provost Porter and his dumpy missus or across the county to snap some lucky lottery winner by four. What did it hold for her today? More of the same, undoubtedly. Unless editor Bond had other ideas, of course. If she had a job at all this morning. ‘I am not happy,’ she said to her menagerie. They looked steadily back at her, their loyalty unwavering. ‘Not happy at all.’ Having got that off her chest she felt well enough to swing her legs out of bed, use her feet to find her slippers, wrap herself up in her old candlewick dressing gown, and shuffle through to the kitchen.
