Morning has broken over Belfast.

A blue, empty Monday has just run its splayed, frigid fingers over the houses and streets of Belfast to summon the citizens out of slumber. The sun's rays bolted across the sky as soon as it levered itself up from behind the Craigantlet hills, and they pierced through the smeared pigeon poop on my bedroom window to embed themselves in my eyes like grit.

So I'm out of bed. The garden is  cool and dew-soaked, giving itself to any green fingered amateur who would care to wield the spade, rake or trowel that have been left strewn wantonly around the lawn, but it's too early for me to succumb to that temptation just yet; I'll take up the challenge later, but I have to indulge myself in the beauty of freezing cold water spurting from the shower in the bathroom. I must drink tea and keep thinking as far away as possible from my brain before letting it gradually encroach into this precious moment of irresponsibility
.