You bet I would! FP Adams (1881–1960) THURSDAY 7.15 am I am lying in bed, staring morosely at the ceiling as the alarm goes off. Reaching out, I hit the snooze button before it can wake up CJ, who is nestled in her usual spot on the electric blanket. Then I go back to my solitary ceiling contemplation, because at least then I don’t have to look at the rest of the room. I try to tell myself that I’ll get used to it. That I’ll have to, because I don’t have the time or inclination to move all the furniture back to where it was. Instead, I think about what I need to do today. I have already resolved that at some point, to alleviate my guilt, I shall visit a pet shop and buy a few goldfish, the uglier the better, and a new budgerigar as well. That is, after I have been to the bank to extract some cash over the counter, filled out the forms to replace my cards, purchased a new, less orange extension cord, priced replacement glass for the lounge-room windows, bought myself a new pair of shoes, oh … and gone to work.
